The Playground Of Europe

THj;

IM.AYOItOlNl) OF KI ROPK

THE

PLAYGEOUND OF EUROPE

VALLEY OF LAUTERBRUNNEN

* Wo complain of thi; mountain'; as rnbbi^'h, a« Dotiml.vflisiiL’iiriuf;
tbv fuoc of the earth, out aV to ns n^elcss aiiil iiif^onvcnient ; and
yet, without tlle^e, neither rivl•^^ nor fountains nor the weather for
producing mid ripeoii|g fniit'' could regularly be produre«1.'

Abp. Kixu On *h Ot'vjni o/ £cU,

SEW EDITION

LONDON

LONGMAN^ GREEN, ANJ) CO.

AND NKW Y§RK : 15 EAST 1C"> STREET

1804

TO

M. GAB It I K L L O P PE

Mr DEAR Luppj%

Twniiy-ouc years ayo iw climbed Muni Blanc
together In tvnleh the sunhct from the summit , Less than
a year ayo tec observed the same jdtctionfetun. from the foot
of the mo an tain. The iniermtiny yiars ^ave prohahhj made
little difference in the sunset, Jj they have made some
dffercnce in our powers of reaetffntj the Inst point of vif
they have, I hope, diminished ndfhi, our udmiratiun of
such speefftrits, mu' our pleasure in tach oiht r\^ eompanion-
ship. If, indeed, f have Attained my lovt of the Alps, i I
has been in no small degree oiring lo you. Many walks in
youf coltipamf, some of which arc described in this vclamc,
have epnfinncjl both onr friendship and our common worship
of the Itionntains, I wish, therefore, to connect your name
with this new edition of my old aitempb to sei^ forth the
diAtijhls of Alpine rambling, ^l^'oone understands the delights
better than gou, and ^to one, T am sure, wilt be a more
lenient eritio of the work of an old friend.

Yours ever,

LESLIE STEl'JIEN.

PEEFAGE

TO

THE FIRST EDITION

This volume is a collection, with certain additions
an^ alterations, of articles which have appeared in
‘ Fraser's Magazine,’ in the publications of the
Alpine Club, and in the ‘ Cornhill Magazine.’ I call
attention to the altcratiens and additions, not because
I imagine that any large number of Alpine enthu-
siiftts have* learnt my writings by heart, or will resent
chan'g^s as*! have sometimes resented a fresh touch
in one of Mr. Tennyson’s familiar poems, but by way
(||^ making one of tliose *apologies which we ^1 know
to be useless, and ‘which yet have an inexpressible
attraction for a writer. One does not make a bad
book good by giving notice of its faultfi, nor can one
hope to %often the inexorable ferocity of critics.
And yet I am posses^ with a nervous feeling, like
that of a gentleman ei^tering an evening party with a
consciousness that his neckcloth is bitdly tied, and

viii THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

endeavouring' by an utterly futile contortion to put it
right at the last moment. 'With my eyes open to the
weakness of my conduct, I do what 1 have often con-

f -

demned in others, ^nd* make a statement which I
might more w'isely leave to my enemies. The case,
then,* is this. I have endeavoured to remove from
these papers one glaring fault. Most of them were
originally written for a small and very friendly
audience ; and whilst the pen was in my hand, I had
a vision before my eyes of a few companions sitting
at the door of some Swiss inn, smoking the pipe of
peace after a hard day's Avalk, and talking what
everybody talks, from archbishops to navvies ; that

t

is to say, what is ordinarily colled 'shop.' I was
simply prolonging pleasant chats about guides and
snow-slopes and aretes, and ropes and crevasses,
which had a strange interest at the time, and were
delightful even in the recoUcctidn. As some often-
cited painter used to work at his* pictures in a court
dress by way of maintaining a dignified frame of
mind, I could 'hardly scribble my undignified narra-
tives m anything but a rusty old shooting^coat, per-
fumed with tobacco, and stilh marked by the rope
that had often been fastened ifoxmd it. It was per-
haps excusable that there should intrude into my

PREFACE

ix

pages a certain quantity nf slang, and a large allow-
ance of exceedingly bad jokes. On presenting myself
to a larger public, I have endeavoured to perform the
painful operation of self-mutilation. The slang, I
would fain hope, has been rnthlesdy excised ; but the
pain of dismissing a poor old joke, at which its auMior
has smiled with parental affectidn, and which his
friends have condescended to accept as more or less
facetious, inflicts so cruel a pang, that 1 fear some
intolerable specimens may remain. Moreover one

<r

cannot alter the tone of a narrative, though one may
remove its most palpable blemishes ; and 1 fear that
there will l}e in the follo\^g chapters a certain sus-
picions flavour as of conversatlbn nut quite fitted for
poliljp society, which no use of literary disinfectants
has quite removed. If so, I must try to console
myself for the blame which I shall incur. The book
is offered chiefly to »thoqe fellow-lunatics~if they
will forgive the expression — who love the Alps too
well not to pardon something* to the harmless mono-
maniac who shares their passion. And would fain
hope that with the indecorum there will remain some
sense of the pleasure with which these pages were
first written. The way jlo make others feel is to feel
oneself ; and I will make, shall I call it a boast or a

X

THE PLAYGSOUND OF EUEOPE

confession?, which is poriiaps less prudent than
the apology. 1 not only wrote these pages with
pleasure, but 1 have read them over again with some
touch of my original feeling. * Even t)enevolent critics
may ascribe that pleasure, not to any merit in the
writing, but to the associations connected with the
narratives. Somehow, in reading, London fogs have
rolled away, and I have caught glimpses of the ever-
glorious Alps ; alK>vc the chimney-pots over the way
I have seen the solemn cliffs of the Schreckhorn and
the Jungfrau. If my pages could summon up the
same visions to other people that they have revealed
to me, they would indeed 1)^ worth rending. As it is,
they may perhaps diiggest some faint shadows of
those visions to fellow-labourers in the same'tield.

« ■

Lkslik StBpifen.

[In republishing these papers of a young gentleman,
whom I shatl regard with a certain interest, I have
not*felt myself at liberty to make any sefious correc-
tions. He would possibly l^ve denied the force of
some critical remarks which to pie appear very
obvious ; and 1 do not know that my judgment would

PBEFACB

XI

be superior to his. I hafve therefore left all faults
of omission and commission in the republished

chapters. I have, however, suppressed two chapters,

• #

one upon the ‘ Eastern Carpathians,' as irrelevant,
and one upon * Alpine Dangers,’ as obsolete. 1 have
substituted for them three papers, written at a rather
later period ; one upon the ‘ Col des Hirondelles,’
from the ‘ Alpine Journal ; ’ and two, ‘ Sunset on
Mont Blanc,’ <ind ‘ The Alps in Winter,’ from the
‘ Cornhill Magasino.’ The last, I may observe, was
written when visits to the Alps in winter were much
less common than at present.

L. H.l

CONTENTS

PAOB

PIUBFACE .......... vii

CHA]fJ*KB

1. Tue Old School I

11. The New School 36

lU. The Scubeckhokn 70

IV. The NoTHHOiiN . . ^ HO

V. The Eioer-Joch 114

VI. The JunofbaC'Jocui 130

o

VII. The ViEBCHEii-Jocii 153

ty 0*

VIII. The Col deb Uiuundelleh . . . . . .* 168

IX. The Bathb of Santa Catabixa 102

X. The Peaks of Piumiero'' 226

,1

Xlr Sunset on Mont Iluvxc . ... . . . 2o7

XII. The Alps in Winter 279 ^

XIII. The Reorkth of a Mountaineer . \ . . 303

LIST

OF

ILLiUS THAT IONS

Ascfnt op the Hothuorn .

. . Frontispiece

•

Valley of Lautebbbunxen

. • Title-page

The Eiokb-Jocu ....

•

to face page 114

•

•• •

The Cahtle of La Pirtua .

220

CHAPTER I

THE OJiJ> SCHOOL

A niQiiLY iNTELLiQKNT Swiss guide ojice gazed
with me ui)on the dreavy of chimney-pots

througli whicli the South-Western Railway escapes
from this dingy metroi)olis. Fancying that I rightly
interpreted his looks as symptomatic of the proverbial
homesickness of mountaineers, I remarked with an
appropriate/ sigh, * That is not so fine a view' as we have
seen together from the toi) of Mont Blanc/ ‘ Ah, sir ! ’
was hiSfpathetie reply, ‘ it is far finer 1 ’ This frai^Ji
avowal set me thinking. Were my most cherished
prejudices folly, o,r was,my favourite guide a fool '? A
(piestion not to be asked 1 '^et very similar shocks, as
has often been remarked, await the student of early
Alpine literature.

Not lojig ago I took up a queer old Swiss ^uide-book,
the predecesao]; of the long line of similar productions
which have culminated in Murray, Baedeker, and Ball.
It wjis originally published in 1713, and for half a
century or more sdbins to have been the familiar friend
of the travellers who then visited the district of which

2

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

C

it treats. It is called by the attractive title of the
‘ Delices de la Suisse ; ’ but the author is a little startled
at his ovrn presumption iu using so ambitious a name.
He explains that it is merely adopt'ed with a view to
a series of similar publications referring to more un-
equivocally delicious countries. In truth, ho says, * si
Ton coiisidere los Alpes du cote de Icur hauteur pro-
digiouse, de leuil) neiges eternellcs, et de I’incommodite
et rudesse dcs chemins qu’on y trouve, il n’y a pas
bcaucoup do deliccs a esperor.’ However, in spite of
the horrors of eternal snow and prodigious height and
steep paths, there are many attractions to be fodnd in
the towns ; and the wisdom of Providence in forming
mountains is justilled H)y certain statistics as to the
number of cattle supported on the pasturages and the
singular crystals to be found in the rocks.* This was
indeed a favourite argument at a time )^hcn the doc-
tsine of the philosophic Pangloss wdk so generally
popular. Everything must b<^. for the best in this best
of all possible worlds, an(] some final cause must be
found even for the Alps. Another contemporary writer,
after observing that it is ditticult to understand why
the Almighty should have raised these ‘ great excres-
cences of the earth, which to outward appearance
indeed have neither use nor comelines^f,’ discovers a
similar solution of the enigma. Not only are the
' hideous rocks of the Cevennes, the Vosges, and the
Alps ’ useful as sending doVn rivers to the sea, but
they are an excellent preserve for fur-bearing animals.

THE OLD SCHOOL

Thus the infidel who naturally regards such monstro-
sities as discreditable to the Architect of the universe
is satisfactorily confuted; ant\ by calculating the
number of cheesdh produced in Alpine dairies and the ■
quantity of chamois leather and crystals which may
be obtaiiK'd in the mountain fastnesses, we can pene-
trate the hidden purposes of the Creator in producing
such hideous excrescences as the Jungfrau and Mont
Blanc. It is true that this trial of faith is somewhat ‘
severe, and that the explanation seems occasionally
rather to break down. The French translator of one
of th6 early Swiss travellers has a very short and con-
clusive answer to the ingenious device by which his
author proves tlie necessity o> the Alps. In spite of
this sjiecial pleading, ho says, it cannot be denied that
France gels on pretty well without everlasting snows,
and that whuih is not wanted in France can certainly
not be’ essential to the rest of the world. If this
gentleman had lived in the days when the French

frontier crossed the stynmit of Mont Blanc his views

•

might have undergone a change, and his patriotism
have no longer come into conflict with his piety.
Perhaps, however, he was a disciple of Voltaire, and
had a general disrespect for final causes. * In all the
ordinary books we find much the same explanation of
the old difficulty. Fur-bearing animals and cheeses
and crystals are the missiles with which the unlucky
sceptic is overwhelmed, dnd the ways of Providence
satisfactorily vindicated to mankind.

4

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

Abandoning the discussion of such inscrutable ques-
tions as little suited for the temper of the times, it is
rather interesting to iuvcsligate the state of mind by
which they were provoked. Why stibuld the Alps be
treated like the smdll-pox or as ‘ a Borgia or a Catiline ’
— aj) shocking to our belief in a beneficent Providence?
What wore the feelings with which they were re-
garded when tlieologians treated them as puzzling
phenomena, only to be fully explained when we under-
stood the origin of evil ? That explanation about the
fur-bearing animals is so palpably inadequate as to
indicate the grievous straits in which the unforttinate
reasoner must have found himself confined. Obviously
its inventor hated the nountains as a sea-sick traveller
hates the ocean, though he may feebly remind himself
that it is a good place for the fish. The aifthor, how-
ever, of the ‘ Belices do la Suisse’ finds one of two more
ii\j;elligible consolations. At intervals be comes across
a view which he admits to be pretty, almost, as it would
seem, in spite of the mountains^ There is, for examiile,
a ‘ fort joli aspect' from the terrace at Benie, and he
admires the lovely cotea tu* of the Pays de Yaud as
seen from the Lake of Geneva, though he has not a
word for tbfi glorious mountain parapet which encloses
the opposite shores. In this, 1 may reqiark, ho coin-
cides rather curiously with the higher autliority of
Addison, who says, speaking of the terrace at Berne,
There is the noblest summer^rospect in the world from
this walk, for you have a full view of a noble range of

THE OLD SCHOOL

6

mountains that lie in the«eountry of the Orisons, and
are buried in snow.’ The geography of this remark
is singular, but the taste is unimpeachable. That
Addison, however, caniv)t have been a great lover
of snow mountains seems to foUo\%from his compari-
son between the lakes of Constance and Geneva. The
Lake of Constance, he says, * appears more beautiful
to the eye, but wants the fruitful fields and vineyards
that border upon the other.’ Why, then, should it be-
more beautiful to the eye ? The only obvious reason
is that it is not bordered by the w’ild ranges of Savoy,
wliiq]i he must apparently have reckoned as a positive
disa<lvautage to its rival. In a paper in the ‘ Tatler,’
tlie snow mountains are treated by him with a painful
degree of disrespect which seems to countenance this
conclusioq. That the natives Ifove winter in August,
and thatith^re-are seven wooden logs in one family,
seem to be 'tb|P only remarks which Addison brought
back from the * top of the highest mountain in Switzer-
land.’ The Lake of Geneva is almost a sacred place
to the lover of mountain scenery : whether we hail it
as the first introduction to the beauties of the Alps or
pay them our last farewell from its shores, it is equally
incomparable ; its lovely grouping of roek and hang-
ing meadoy; and distant snow and rich lowland and
breadth of deep blue water strikes one as a masterpiece
in some great gallery of exquisite landscapes. We now
look upon it, or.ought look upon it, as tinged with
poetical associations from Bousseau and Byron — if

« TBE PLAYOBOUND OF FUBOPE

those respectable authors have not become too old-
fashioned for the modern generation. But its own
intrinsic merits are incomparable, and a man who pre-
serves a stolid indifference ^ face />f such a scene
must be, one woul^think, of the essentially pachyder-
matous order. It was slow, however, in making its
wa^ to public favour. Perhaps we may excuse Bishop
Burnet for takm^ more interest in the theology than
in the scenery of Geneva. He seems to have glanced
at the mountains with considerable disgust. He looked
at the Mont Maudit — as Mont Blanc was then ex-
pressively named— and was assured by a certaip in-
comparable mathematician that it was two miles in
perpendicular height; and after meditating a little
upon the subject, remarks that * one will be afterwards
apt to imagine that these cannot be the pripaary pro-
ductions of the Author of Nature, but are* the vast
ruins of the first world which the del^e broke into
so^any inequalities.’ Later writers gradually awoke
to its charms. Gibbon admired, though from a safe
distance, the noble mountains dl Savoy, which looked
down upon him ofi the moonlight night when he put
the last stroke to the ‘ Decline and Fall,’ and Voltaire
composed a |cw smart lines about

ces monts sourcillenx

Qai pressent ies enfers et qui fendent let Seux,

and declared that ‘ mon lae est le premier,’ principally
liecause it was the residence^f the lofty goddess La
Liberte. But we should hardly look either to Voltaire

THE OLD SCHOOL

7

ov to Gibbon for any genuino enthusiasm in presence
of natural sublimity. From Bousseau — the first man,
according to Mr. Carlyle (though the expression is
not strictly accurate), viho said, Come, let us make
a description — we migfit expect bettor things; and'
better things arc not altogether wonting. Yet it is
curious to find in one of St.-Proux’s set descriptions
just the same peculiarity which we have noticed in
Addison. That enthusiastic gentleifiau describes the
head of the Lake of Geneva with his usual fluency.
He points out to Jnlie the mouth of the Bhone and
the ‘ reduns of the mountains ; ’ but his great point is
the comparison between the rich and charming banks of
the Pays de Vaud and the barren heights of the Cha-
blais. The moral is, of coufte, that freedom has pro*
duced vineyards in one case anjl slavery left bare rocks
in the o^fier ; and would seem to iinifiy that even Rous-
seau had not learnt our modern admiration for barren-
ness *on its account. He admired the mountjuns
as the barriers which kept luxury from corrupting
the simplicity of th& native, and in some passages he
c-xpresses what may be taken for substantially the
modern sympathy with savage scenery ; but one still
feels an uncomfortable suspicion that his love of rocks «
may be a particular case of his love of paradox. He
admires thftn, wo may fancy, precisely because they
ore hideous ; the mountains, like tlie noble savage, are
a standing protest against the sophisticated modern
taste ; they are bare and wild and repulsive, but at

8

THE PLAYOEOVNT) OF EUROPE

any rate they have not takep to wearing wigs and Htays
and submitted to the convoutional taste of the century.
To love them is a proof of a singular independence of
character, which is (tdmirablc becai^se it is eccentric.
To this, however,^! must presently return. Mean-
while, by way of extreme contrast to this point of vieu',
Ve may take the last of the Tories, to whom the abuse
of luxury was meaningless cant, and London the
centre of all intWest. Dr. Johnson speculates after
his fashion upon the love of mountain scenery, wlien
Boswell has succeeded in lugging him into the wilds of
the Highlands. He gets to a place such as a ‘ ^iter
of romance might have been delighted to feign,’ l)nt he
evident]}' regards it with supreme disgust. He thinks
with fond regret of his itfeal prospect at Charing Cross,
and has a dim conviction that he is rather fool for
suffering himself to he dragged at the tail of % Boswell

c

into these regions of bog and heather. However, it
will never do for a philosopher to a^it that he
has made a mistake, and aeoordingly he proceeds to
moralise in this fashion : * It will readily occur,’ he
says, * that this uniformity of barrenness can afford
very little amusement to the traveller ; that it is easy
to sit at home and conceive rocks, heaths, and W'ater-
falls, and that these journeys are useless labours, whicdi
neither impregnate the imagination noif inform the
understanding.’ That is ojiviously the genuine John-
sonese sentiment. Wliy was^ho not sitting in the
‘ Mitre ’ ‘ conceiving rocks and heaths and waterfalls ’

THF. OLD SCHOOL

g

enough to giye additional %eat to bis comforts, instead
of dragging his ponderous bulk into this * uniformity of
barrenness ’ ? Of course ho finds a reason sufficient to
save his philosophical character. Such regions, he says, ■
^orm a great part of the earth’s surface, and he that has
hever soon them must be unacquainted with one of the
groat scenes of human existence. On another occa-
sion his reflections have a similar tii)gc. He admits
that ho has entered the Highlands by choice, and has ‘
no serious cause for alarm ; yet the thoughts produced
by the * unknown and untravellcd wilderness ’ verge
npon^he uncomfortable. ‘ The phantoms which haunt
the dosei*t are want and inisen’ and danger ; the
o' bs of (U reliction rush uponJ;he thoughts ; man is
i..,i.de unwillingly acquainted with his own weakness ;
and meditation shows him how*]ittlc he can sustain,
how little die .can perform.’

I mpy quo^a more curious specimen of this simple-
minded abhorrence of mountainsfrom Johnson’s friend
Richardson. One of the characters in ‘ Sir Charles
Orandison ’ describes a passage of the Hont Cenis.
He describes the vhahtt'H-o-iwiit’ur and the avalanches
with great interest ; he shudders at the wind called
‘ the Tormenta,’ which blows the frozen snow iitto his
face and wqunds it as witli sharp-pointed needles.
Rut for the scenery he has no words, except frank
exi)re8siona of horror. He (wntrasts Savoy, ‘ equally
noted for its iioverty aud*rocky mountains,’ with the
smiling fields of France, and admits that * his spirits

10

THE PLAYGSOUND OF EUROPE

were great sufferers by the«change.’ When he arrives
at Lans-le-bourg — a place which for three months in
the twelve scarcely sees the sun — he declares emphati-
cally, that * every object whi^h hcrQ presents itself is
excessively miserable,’ and indeed falls so ill that, but
for the wonderful skill and kindness of the inimitable
8ir Charles, he could never have faced the terrible
passage to Italy. What would the hero of a modern
novel sa}' to such blasphemy of the charms of moun-
tain scenery ?

It would be difficult to imagine a human being more
thoroughly out of his element than Dr. Johnsoi] oar a
mountain ; and Bichardson was not much better quali-
fied for the ixasition. W§ may pardon them for express-
ing frankly sentiments which a considerable number
of modern tourists* might jarubably discover at the
bottom of their hearts. Indeed, there js a good deal
to be said for their opinions. Is thei^not something
r^ither unnatui’al in the modern enthusiasm, or affecta-
tion of enthusiasm, for * imiformity of barrenness ’ ?
"Why should wo not prefer "the regions which aaro
admirably fitted*for humaaa comfort to those in which
life must be a continual struggle ? Coldsmith, writing
from Leyden, speaks contemptuously of the Scottish
scenery from which he had just dejaarted. ‘ There,’ he
says, 'hills and rocks intercept every prospect; here
it is all a continued plaiai/ and very much the better,
as be seems to intimate, fo% the absence of those dis-
agreeable excrescences. Macaulay, commenting upon

THE OLD SCHOOL

11

this passage, suggests a* very simple explanation ;
comfort and security, he thinks, have more to do vrith
our sense of beauty than ' people of romantic disposi-
tions ’ are disposed to admit. X. traveller will not be
tbrowii into ecstasies by natural objects which threaten
him with actual danger — ‘ by the gloomy grandeur of
a pass where he finds a corpse which the marauders
have just stripped and mangled, or by the screams of
those eagles whose next meal may probably be on '
bis own eyes ! ’ One is sometimes inclined to ask, Is
not this beginning at the wrong end V* Undoubtedly
the sgream of an eagle must be singularly unpleasant
w hen it acts as dinner-bell to a meal of which you are
the piece de resistance ; but wjjiy should it be pleasant
under any circumstances ? The problem should not
be stated,«Why did Goldsmith, \)r Addison, or John-
son hate objects which made him uncomfortable with
so goo^ reasoij,? but Why do we love them ? At any
rate, the explanation seems to bo incomplete. Gofd-
smith could set; Arthur's Seat and the Pcntland hills
and the Firth of Fortl* —

Whose isles upon Us bosom float

Like emeralds chased in gold -

and all the neighbourhood of the most picturesque city
in Europe (J do not insist upon the accuracy of the
expression) as easily and safely as the weary flats
that encircle Leyden. Wliy'did he not admire them ?
To notice one parallel phenomenon, there has been a
similar change in modern taste in regard to objects

12

THE PLATOBOUND OF EUBOPE

where LordMacaulay'stheory isobviously inapplicable.
Gothic architecture, the influence of which is in many
respects analogous tQ that of mountain scenery, was as
accessible in the ei^teentlv century as it is in the
present day. There was no more danger then than
now of the cathedral jackdaws dining off the eyes of
the spectator, or of any worse robbers than elderly
vergers lying in, wait for sightseers. Yet it is spoken
of in language which reminds one forcibly of the
criticism on mountains. Thus, for example — to quote
from a writer who has given us his views on both
topics — Bishop Berkeley was certainly a man of fine
taste and keen sensibility. He crossed Mont Cenis on
New Year’s Day 1714, ||nd remarks, first, that he was
‘put out of humour by the most horrible precipices;’
secondly, that his life*often ‘depended on a single step ; ’
and thirdly, that his correspondent bad, much bettor
take the comparatively safe and pleasaq^ route jio Italy
by sea. In the ‘ Minute Philosopher,* again, he has
occasion to propose a theory of beauty. The Eastern
nations and the Greeks, he tells us, ‘ naturally ran
into the most becoming drosses, whilst our Gothic
gentry have never yet had the luck to stumble on any-
thing that was not absurd and ridiculous.’ Following
out the argument, he speaks of the variqus graces of
Greek buildings, in all of which, according to him,
‘lieauty ariseth from the appearance of use in the
imitation of natural things • . . which is indeed the
grand difference between Greek and Gothic architec-

THE OLD SCHOOL

13

tare, the latter being fantAstical and for the most part
•founded neither in nature or reason, necessity or use,
the appearance of which accounts for all the beauty,
grace, and ornaihent of* the other.’ Thus Berkeley'
assumed as a primary axiom, needihg no sort of proof,
that Gothic architecture was naturally devoid^ of
beauty, as indeed Gothic is generally used in that age
as synonymous with barbarous, or, ui other words, as a
term of abuse, whether applied to manners or to build-
ings. Not to dwell upon this, it is sulHcient to remark
at present that a man who could cite Westminster
Abbey or Salisbury Cathedral as a specimen of simple
ugliness might very well shudder at the Alps. The
second party of tourists tliak ever visited Chomouni
compared the Aiguilles to the spires of a Gothic
churcli, aitd the couqiarison has*l;ccome as hackneyed
as other fouvist commonplaces. The cathedral and the
granite peaksjiavc indeed many qualities in common ;
the grey walls have caught something of the solemn
gloom of the mountain cliff, and the fantastic and
almost grotesque shapes of some of the rot^ky pinnacles
rival the daring visions of mediieval architects. Indeed,
it is scarcely possible to describe the wildest moimtain
scenery without the use of architectural m<^phor ; and
one might vqpture to predict from a man’s taste in
human buildings whether he preferred tho delicate
grace of lowland scenery of the more startling effects
only to 1)6 seen in the heart of the momitains. It may
fairly be inferred that men who held the artistic creed

14

THE PLAYOBOVND OF EUROPE

of the eighteenth centary Were prevented from loving
the sublime but irregular shapes of the Alps by some-
thing more than the inconveniences or the dangers of
^vel. The mountains, likd mnsic^ require not only
tile absence of distlirbing causes, but the presence of a
delicate and cultivated taste. Early travellers might
perceive the same objects with their outward sense ;
but they were (affected as a thoroughly unmusical
person is affected by the notes of some complex har-
mony, as a chaos of unmeaning sounds.

We require, therefore, to penetrate a little farther
into the question. I have spoken hitherto of senti-
ments which may be due simply to the material incon-
veniences of the Alps. ♦. They were such as a farmer
or a political economist might utter from the purely
utilitarian point of view. Mountains, it** was said,
showed a * uniformity of barrenness ; ’ and patriots
replied by counting the number of covs they could
feed. The mountains were simply species of the great
genus desert. An economist might use them to illus-
trate the meaning of the 'margin of cultivation,’ which
creeps gradually up their flanks as rent rises in the
valleys. But the simple statements that bare rock and
everlasting inow are very much in the way of an en-
lightened agriculturist, and highly inqpnvenient to
roadmakers, with a few necessary amplifications, will
pretty well sum up the reflections of the old-fashioned
guide-books. There were, however, even in those dark
ages, some observers who could see in the Alps more

THE OLD SCHOOL

15

than inconvenient lumps of objectionable matter; men
of science had penetrated their recesses, had hunted
for rare herbs ai)on their slop^, had attempted to
account for glacfer motion, and had given, as they
imagined, a perfectly satisfactory adbount of the origin
of the mountains themselves. It is interesting to ^ee
what were the first impressions of those who surmounted
their natural terror or disgust, and gawe some descrip-
tions of the more striking phenomena which they
observed. A few notes from some of the earlier
writers will help to illustrate their state of mind.

In the ‘ Delices de la Suisse ’ — to return for a moment
to that c-vcellent work — there is a picture which may
catch the eye of the hasty I'eader. It appc>urs at first
sight to represent a croquet^ball. The two poles are
dark, but a lighter sone runs round the e<iuator, and is
marked b^ certain singular figures something like the
astronomical «ign of Pisce^. And thereby hangs^ a
tale — and a very remarkable one. The object in ques-
tion was the chief orn^iment of a museum at Lucerne,
and for aught I know may still bp visible there to
enterprising travellers. One of the earlier Swiss tra-
vellers, Scheuchzer by name, declares in a fine glow
of enthusiasm that there is nothing like it ‘ in regum,
principum, p^vatorumque muscis.' Scheuchzer, who
made several tours from 1702 to 1711, was a man of
some real scientific acquiredients, especially as a bota-
nist ; he invented a theetty of glacier motion, which at
any rate opened an interesting question ; some of his

IG.

THE PLAYOEOVND OF EUHOPE

journals were published the expense of the Uoyal
Society of Loudon, and two of the quaint illustra-
tions are dedicated to Sir Isaac Newton. He represents
the intellectual stage at which a growing scepticism
has made a compromise with old-fashioned credulity.
His rule, and it is a very convenient one, is always to
believe half'of W'hat he is told. For example, he docs
not believe that any chamois possess the quality of ‘ ini-
penctrabijjtas,’ i.c. to musket-shots ; but thinks that
some of them must have an abnormal toughness of
constitution, probably due to the be/oars sometimes
found in their intestines. In regard, howevw:, to
this marvellctus stone, he throws aside his scepticism
in favour of unqualificdcfaith. It is, in fact, uotbing
less than a drheonita or dragon-stone, and the rarity
of such an object may be inferred from the most ap-
proved process of obtainuig it. You must Itrst catch
a dragon asleep, then scatter soporific hty^’bs abojit him
(wkich, as Scheuchzer admits, (las a fabulous sound),
add then cut the stone out of his head, which, however,
will be spoilt if he wakes daring the process. Consider-
ing the extreme difiiculty of securing all these condi-
tions, it must bo held as fortmiate that in this instance
the stone was dropped promiscuously by a flying
dragon and picked up by a passing peasant. The
authenticity of the stone is proved by several argu-
ments : as, first, a dishofiest man would never have
invented so simple a story, bwt would rather ha vci pro-
duced some marvellous tale about its coming from the

THE OLD SCHOOL

IT

farthest Indies ; secondly, lliere are various depositions
of the finder and his family ; and, thirdly, the stone
not only cures simple htemorrhages (which it might
have done if comflbsed of* simple jasper or marble) but
dysenteries and fevers, and a catalogue of more terrible
complaints than were ever relieved by Holloway’s Pills.
Bcheuchzer then brings forward a quantity of corro-
borative evidence as to the existence ofMragons. There
is, indeed, a strong » prwri probability that ih regions
so wild and full of caves as the Bhastian Alps dragons
must exist ; but more direct testimony is not wanting
and generally conforms to one typo. Some ‘vir
quidam probus ’ comes home in the evening with a
swimming in the head and a marked uncertainty about
the motions of his legs. He attr^utes these unprece-
dented phenomena to the influence of the dragon who
encountereH him in the forest. From his description
an accurate portrait of the dragon is composed. The
remarkable thing about these diagrams is the singular
variety of tyi)e in the ggnus dragon. There are scaly
dragons and slimy dragons, dragons iwith wings and'
feet, two-legged and four-legged dragons, and at times
dragons with neither wings nor legs, but with objection-
able heads and semi-human faces of an expression at
once humorous and malignant. Bchcuchzer divides
these dragons by a scientific classification, and is puz-
zled by the question whether tlie crest is to be taken as
a specific distinction or is hierely characteristic of the
male or (should we say ?) the cock dragon. At any rate

18

TBE PLATGBOUND OF EUBOPE

C

* satis snperque constat’ that there are dragons \vhteh
differ from serpents in seven respects ; amongst which
it may be mentioned; that they breathe so hard as to
draw in not merely air but the birds flying above them.

Half a century before Schcuchzer, or about 1666,
the Alps were visited by the learned Jesuit Eircher,
and it is rather amusing to compare their views.
Eircher believed*, as becomes his cloth and his period,
in various stories which Scheuchzer summarily puts
down amongst ‘ anilia deliramenta.' On dragons he
is specially emphatic. A certain ‘clarissimus vir,’
Herr Schorer had seen with his own eyes a fiery
dragon, which flew across the Lake of Lucerne from
Mount Pilate, emitting^parks like an anvil, and indeed
strongly resembling meteor to less experienced ob-
servers. Nay, Eircher is bound by bis respect for the
Church — though not without a word or iwd of hinted
suspicion — to believe in a legend whichtis preserved by
a public notice in the church of St. Leodegarius in
Lucerne. It tells how a man 4>asscd some months in
a cave with twee dragons, who were either naturally
amiable or were calmed by his energetic appeals to
the Virgin, and finally escaped by holding on to their
tails w'hen they flew away after their period of hiber-
nation. Dragons, it is plain, still • flapped their
gigantic wings across every retired gorge and haunted
all the inaccessible caves of the Alps ; and if anyone
doubts it, he must reckon ^ith Gesnerus, Cysatns and
the learned Stumphius. Indeed, they seem to have

THE OLD SCHOOL

19

•

been almost as common as Lanmergder. Kircher has
still more marvellous anecdotes to relate. He was
evidently a good mountaineer, and made the ascent of
Filatus, upon which Scheuchzer failed ' partim propter
corporis lassitudinem, partim propter longinquitatem
vise adhuc mctiendic;’ causes which, tliougli seldom
so frankly acknowledged, have hindered a good many
ascents l>efure and since. Devils, pigmies, and cobolds
still lingered like the relics of primotval populations,
slowly decaying before the advance of civilisation. On
Pilate, Kircher saw the lake to which the devil drags
Pilate evcrj’ Good Friday to inflict an annual imnish-
ment. He was disappointed at finding it only a yard
and a half in depth, but was gratified by discovering
certain suspicious footsteps in tl)^ snow, which might
or might ndt have been those of the diabolical visitant.
On this, as oft some other points, he leans towards a
qualified scepticism, and thinks that most of the d(emun~
euU of which ho speaks wore due to the credulity of
the peasantry. Once, however, he had a more startling
adventure. He was climbuig the*Mons Arnus in
Unterwaldcn, in search of a gold-bearing cave. As
he approached the mouth, there issued from it a con-
fused hubbub as of human voices, though no being of
mortal flesh and blood could have been within some
miles. Poor Kircher narrowly escaped being hurled
to the bottom., ‘like Sisyphus,’ as he puts it, and we
may fancy returned to t&e nearest village with his
appetite for gold-bearing caves considerably damped.

20

TEE PLATGEOUND OF EUBOPE

I will only add that, in regard to dragons, Kircher
had an hypothesis to explain the variety in structure
upon which I have ahrcady remarked. The dragon,

C C

he thought, was t^e result of spontaneous generation.
Eagles left the carcases of their prey to decay in the
ne{ghlx)urhood of their eyries, and from these savoury
hotbeds of corruption there would naturally arise
dragons partaking in various proportions of the pecu*
liarities of the animals whose carcases happened to form
the delectable compost.

The Alps, then, were still haunted, even in the days
of Sir Isaac Newton, by portentous dragons. ' At a
rather earlier period they had afforded shelter to goblins
and devils of still moi^e portentous nature. These
picturesque beings disaiqieared before the early dawn
of science, much as the natives of Tasmania have dis-
appeared before the English immigrants. It is only
another stage in the process described in Milton’s
linos —

From haunted spring and dale,

Edged with poplar pale,

The pa&ting genius is with sighing sent.

The old gods of the woods and the streams were
degraded, as wo know, into demons ; and their last
descendants seem to have been the wretehed d<emunc^di
who lingered in Kircher’s imagination. The dragons,
as having a quasi-scientibc existence and having left at
least one tangible token of th%irpresenco in themuseum
at Lucerne, lingered yet a little longer ; but they, with

THE OLD SCHOOL

21

much that was more beautiful, fled before the earliest
approach of the tourist. Not the vestige of a dragon is
now to be found, even in those wildest regions of the
Alps which, according to Scheuchzcr, were specially
adapted for their generation, ani which are now
thronged and, as some think, desecrated by the bath-
ing guests at St. ^loritz. Fairies and elves, and other
symbols by which people once interpreted to themselves
the awe and wonder produced by natural scenery, have
die<l too thoroughly even for iwetical puriwsos. How
much will go with them and how far will the same
procejiH aiiplicd iii other directions destroy the beauty
and tlic romance of our daily lives ?

Old travellers saw a moun^in and called it simply
a hideous excrescence ; but then they peopled it with
monsters jwid demons; gnomes Vrigglcd through its
sabtcrran0an,reccsses ; mysterious voices spoke in its
avolancjics; cy^agons winged their way across its
gorges ; the devil haled the ghosts of old sinners to i^s
lakes to be tormented ; the wild huntsman issued from
its deep ravines ; and possibly some enchanted king sat
waiting for better days in a mysterious hall beneath its
rocks. Was not this merely expressing in another way
the same sense of awe which we describe by calling the
mountain itself sublime and beautiful ? The sentiment
was projected mto these external images, but in sub-
stance it may have been mwch the same ; and every
legend which floats roundpthese noble peaks shows as
distinctly as the ravings of the modern enthusiast how

22

THE ELAYOEOCND OE EUliOPE

much they impress the imagination. When the ma-
chinery, as old critics used to call it, has finally
decayed and dropped ^to pieces, the feelings to which its
rise was dne may still survive, and wc may admiro
nature equally or ^ssibly move when the beings by
wh^ch we accounted to ourselves for our admiration
have ceased to exist even in fancy.

•At the period, however, of which I am speaking,
dragons and goblins were, so to speak, at the fag end
of their existence. They had received notice to (juit
and were submitting without serious opposition. For
a short time there was a struggle between scepticism
and faith, which is rather odd to observe. Sensible
men of course took a noddle path and admitted that
many dragons were the fictions of credulous peasants,
and perhaps even a Mythical way of describing water-
falls (that is one of Scheuchzer’s suggeslaons), but
they would not fiy to the ridiculo^^ extreme of
abandoning their dragons altogether. They made a
judicious compromise and tried to reconcile the con-
clusions of faith and science. It is evident that
some mental effort was necessary to belief. When it
comes to classifying dragons and dividing them into
scientific 8|>ecics ('dracones,’ says one traveller in
1680, ‘ in non alatos et alatos dividemus, illosque in
apodes et ^ledatos subdividemus ’) we feel that their
days arc doomed ; and iff is at this period when the old
romance is finally slain and science has not as yet
created a new interest for itself that the mountains

THE OLD SCHOOL

28

would naturally be most prosaic. Yet there was
already a beginning of better things. Eircher, for
example, had taken to mountain exploration from his
extreme interest jn an explosion* of Vesuvius, and was
eager to solve the curious problems which they pre-
sented. The mountains were already interesting in his
eyes, and from that it is a short step to their becoming
beautiful. His explanation, indeed, admits that their
occasional beauty is a kind of supplementary cause
of their existence. There are, it appears, five main
reasons for the existence of mountains : first, they
serv^ as chains to bind the earth together, or as the
bones or skeleton of the world, which is illustrated by
elaborate diagrams ; secondly^ they resist the destruc-
tive action of the sea ; thirdly, they make rivers, and to
illustrate tjiis he treats us to singular diagrams, showing
howthe Alps and other mountain chains are simply lids
to vast cistenis of water- hydrophylacise,’ as he culls
them — from which the rivers are somehow pumpl^
up; fourthly, they restrain the wind and protect
plants ; and, fifthly, they produce mines. To this he
adds cursorily, and, as it were, rathhr ashamed of so
trifling a reason, * non dicam hie de amoenitate pro-
spectus, de utilitate quam umbra sua^in subjectis
agrorum plauis vollibusque conferuut,’ &c. So that
the moimtains w’ere not quite without their charms.
The most striking passage, however, upon this subject,
occurs in Burnet’s ' SacrQ4 Theory of the Earth,’ which
in the beginning of the eighteenth century was, as

24

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

Waterlaud tells ns, a textbook for geological students at
Cambridge. People in those days fancied, as people
generally fancy when they catch sight for the first time
of a new problem, tha{ it was far easici;iand simpler than
was actually the caee ; they did not know till experience
taught them how painfully they would be compelled
to Advance from step to step, and to uiuravel the in-
tricate chain of ^causes which have gone to bring the
earth into its present shape ; and still less how one
principal result of the enquiry would be to prove that
the most interesting questions lay outside the reach
of human knowledge. With the Book of Genes^ for
their authority, a happy faculty of guessing to eke
out any deficiencies of uiformation, and a few infer'-
cnees from the Newtonian theories to produce a
scientific tinge, they«thonght that the wjiolc thing
would be explained. i.

Burnet’s tiew was that the earth resembled a
gigantic egg, the shell representing ^e superficial
crust, the white of the egg the subterranean waters,
and the yolk the central core.* Wlien the fountains
of the great deSp were broken up the shell was
shivered, the waters drowned mankind and then
retired into Jihe present sea, leaving the fragments to
form the moimtain ranges. The conclusions thus ob*
tained as to the past and the probable *future of the
world coincided in the most charming way with the
Book of Genesis and the .^goocalypse, and they are
enforced with abundant eloquence, if with a rather

THE OLD SCHOOL

25

short allowance of reason. • I quote part of the poetical
passage in which Burnet describes how he was first
induced to approach so tremeiidous a subject. He
says ;

‘ The greatest objects of nature*are, methinks, the
most pleasing to behold ; next to the great concave of
the heavens, and those boundless regions which the
stars inhabit, there is nothing that I look upon with
more pleasure than the wide sea aiid the mountains of
the earth. There is something august and stately in
the air of these things, that inspires the mind with
greal^ thoughts and passions. We do naturally, upon
such occasions, think of God and His greatness ; what-
ever hath but a shadow and a]^)oarancc of the Infinite,
as all things have that are too big for our compre-
hension, apd fill and overbear the mind with their
excess, cast jt into a xdcasing kind of stupor and
admiration. And yet these mountains that we are
speaking of, to confess the truth, are nothing but
great ruins, but such as show a certain magnificence of
nature ; as from the temples and broken amphitheatres
of the Bomans, wo collect the greatness of that people.
But the grandeur of a nation is less sensible to those who
never saw the remains and monuments they have left,
and those who never see the mountainous parts of the
earth scarce ever reflect upon the causes of them or what
power in nature could be sufficient to produce them.*

Burnet proceeds to sayithat when he crossed the Alps
and Apennines, the ‘sight of those vast undigested

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

heaps of stone did so strike my fancy that I was not
easy till 1 could give myself some tolerable account of
how that confusion came in nature.’ He imagines
a sleeper suddenly transported from the plains, and
pamts his astonishment on waking to see ‘ such vast
bodies thrown together in confusion.’ ‘Look upon
these great ranges,’ ho exclaims, ‘ in what confusion do
they lie ; they hj)>ve neither form nor beauty, neither
shape nor order, no more than the clouds in the air.
Then how barren, how desolate, how naked are they !
How they stand neglected by nature ! Neither the
rains can soften them nor the dews from hcavep can
make them fruitful.’ After insisting on the chaotic
disorder of the Alps, l^e says that if you could get
within the mountains, ‘ for they are generally hoUow',
you would find all things there more rude, jf possible,
than without. ... No tempest nor earthquake could
put things in more disorder. ’Tis true they cannot
look as ill now as they did at first. The ruin that is
fresh looks much worse than afterwards when the
earth grows discoloured and skinned over, but 1 fancy
if we had seen {he mountains when they were new-
born and raw, when the earth was first broken and
the waters af the deluge newly retired, the fractions
and confusions of them would have appeared very
ghastly and frightful.’ *

This passage gives a very striking account of the
inflnence of mountains in«that day upon a highly
imaginative observer. They resembled vast ruins.

THE OLD SCHOOL

27

not 80 ghastly and frightful as of old, because their
deformities have been partially skinned over, yet
still without form or beauty, huge chaotic fragments
of the tremendous catastrophe that once shook the
earth to its foundations, and yet, ^I’om the fact that
they spoke so forcibly of that inconceivable exhibition
of power, intensely interesting and suggestive of
elevating thoughts. He felt like a man coming upon
the ruins of an imperial city, just sacked by bar-
barians, with remnants of its former splendour lying
heaped in hideous confusion, yet carrying the mind
backato the days when they were perfect. The same
thought is e.xprcssed in Scott’s lines about Benvenue,

whose ,

Knolls, crags, aiul mounds confusedly liurled,

Seemed fragments of an carligr world.

•

Only Scott content to play with the fancy which
Burnet puts forward with all the seriousness of a
scientific en(piirer. Think of the mountains as, in
sober earnestness, ruins of the antediluvian world,
and they are really terrible. When they have declined
into the romantic stage the same expression is merely
a lively image of their apparent chaos. At a later
period they gain an interest of a differenhorder, when
the mounds are indicative of the action of ancient
glacial forces and every rock speaks to the observer of
the slow lapse of geological periods.

From this, I think, ive may deduce a few obvious
conclusions as to the different temper with which the

28

THE PLAYGEOUND OF EUItOPK

moontains were then regai^ied. Macaiilay’e theory
obviously contains much trutli, though not the whole
truth. The Alps, indeed, were visited without much
fear of robbers or of eagles in the eighteenth century.
Every young geutKiman crossed them in making tlie
grand tour, luid no worse incidents are recorded that
I know of thaii the slaughter of Horace Walpole’s lap-
dog by a wolf. JJut in a wider sense there was pre-
cisely the same difference between our view of Alpine
scenery then and now, as between the American back-
woodsman’s hatred of a tree and that passionate regard
for trees which people entertain who live in dread
of economical officials and grasping landlords. Ice
is a nuisance in Greonlq,nd and an inestimable luxury
at Calcutta, and wo, who are pent for ten months
of the year in a crowd of three million* cocluieys,
love our remaining playgrounds of fresh air ^d unen-
closed pasture as naturally as men hatgj^ them, whose
lives were a daily battle with the wilderness. Moun-
tains were once the main fortresses of the tyrannical
powers of nature now they are the last strongholds in
which unsophisticated nature holds out : it is not sur-
prising that our sentiments have changed. But we
must add, if we would understand the precise nature
of the change, some of the considerations which I
have endeavoured to suggest.

The judgment passed Ob mountain scenery in differ-
ent generations would, 1 imagine, curiously illustrate
the relation between the poetical and the scientific

THE OLD SCHOOL

29

stage of thought characteristic of any given period.
When science had exorcised the cUemuncnli, the moun-
tains were left, like Burnet’s unskinned ruins, bare of
imaginary bcingfi, and not yet covered by the compli-
cated network of associations whiclfhas been gradually
produced by a closer observation of their details. , To
reproduce the mountains of a hundred and fifty years
back we must begin by emptying our idea of nearly
everything w'hich gives them interest. The same
picture was painted upon the retina of Addison when
he stood on the terrace of Berne, and of the modern
observer who follows in his footsteps. But when we
compare the significance to the mind of the two spec-
tacles, it is the difference between the vague blue films
in the background of an ignorant painter and the
photograph with all its infinite variety of detail. One
man saw Clothing but a flat surface bounded by an
irregular jagged line ; to the other, every minute fn^g-
ment of the picture has a story and a language of its
own. Mr. Buskin has expounded at great length and
with admirable acuteness the difference between the
fulness of meaning in a mountain as drawn by Turner
and the vague shapeless lumps of earlier artists. The
mountains are now intensely real and. So to speak,
alive to their fingers’ ends; they began by being
empty metaphysical concepts, and the difference is
simply due to the fact that ilobody had then taken the
trouble to look at them, and that a great many highly
skilled observers have been working at them very care-

80

TBE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

fully ever since and have added their impressions to the
existing stock. The hasty and inaccurate outline has
been slowly filled up % the labours of successive gene-
rations, and they have come into cont&ct with our sym-
pathies at an incoihparably greater number of points.

,Now, it is plain that the big chaotic lumps which
existed in the beginning of the eighteenth century were
comparatively useless for poetical purposes. Burnet
has XHsrhaps made the best of them in the passage I
have quoted. There is something impressive about his
picture of the ruins of an earlier world. But, to say
nothing of the unreality of the hypothesis, it is too«um-
mary and simple a mode of explanation. It takes ns
into the most unpoetica^ sphere of metaphysics, and
rather stops enquii^ than suggests fresh trains of
thought. •

Finally, it may be noticed that the contemporaries
of^Newton had an uncomfortably mathematicaUway of
looking at such problems. They thought that as the
earth’s orbit was a respectable pllipse, the earth itself
should have beeq a neat oblate spheroid; and any
irregularity in figure was rather discreditable than
otherwise — Whiston argued, was in some
way connccllbd with the fall of man.

We might trace the reflection of t];;ese views in
poetry, except that the poets had then so little to say
of the mountains, or indhed of any natural objects.
When, at a later period, mCh of science were prying
into every detail of Alpine scenery, poets were simnl-

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81

toneously looking at them with a fresh interest. When
Saas8are had keen speculating on the causes of glacier
motion, Shelley spoke of the gl^iers which creep

Like snakes thatVateh their prey from their far fountains, .

Slow rolling on ; *

and Byron told how the

Glacier’s cold and restless mass
Moves onwards tlay by day. ,

Erratic blocks were objects of a poetical as well as of
a scientific treatment. Wordsworth describes his leech-
gatherer as standing

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie
Couched on the bald top of an eminence,

Wonder to all that do the same espy,

By what means it could thitllor come and whence ;

So that it seems a thing endued with sense,

Like a sea beast crawled forth, which on a shelf
Of ^k or sand reposeth there to sun it.self.

"Wordsworth, Byron, and Shelley had evidently ob-
served* the ro^s and the ice with an interest as keen
as that of Saussure, though they turned their observa-
tions to a different aiecoiint. But what was a poor
poet to do with the shapeless inorganic lumps of matter
which did duty for mountains to a former generation ?
We may find one or two feeble attempts ^o hitch them
into verse. Young, for example, of the * Night Thoughts,'
took it into Ms head to improve some of the celebrated
descriptions in Job;* but h^ mentions with some pride

* Let anyone who pays a vijit to the Zoological Gardens, remark
thoclosonesBtonatureof following remark upon the hippopotamus
* How like a mountain cedar moves his tail ! '

82

T&E JPLAYGBOVND OF EUBOPE

that the passage about mountains ia entirely flis ouvn.
This is the whole of it.

Who heaved the m^ntain, which Bublimely stands
And casts its shadow into distant iandS ?

C v

For a more elaborate treatment wc may go to Pope,
and! quote a once celebrated passage in the ‘ Essay on
Criticism : ’

•

Bo pleased at first, the tow’ring Alps we try,

Mount o’er the vales and seem to touch the sky ;

The eternal snows appear already past,

And the first clouds and mountains seem the last.

But those attained, we tremble to survey
The growing labours of the lengthening way ;

Th’ increasing prospect tires our wond’ring eyes —

Hills peep o’er hills, and Alps on Alps arise !

The metaphor is not a bad one for a young gentle*
man who had never seen a higher mountain than
Bichmond Hill; but it obviously implies no love of
t^p ‘tow’ring Alps ’ either in the poet or the original
from whom he copied. Aud, finally, 1 will quote a few
lines from one of the worst popts of his own or any
other generation.. They are, however, curious as an
example of the way in which the scientific opinions of
the Bumet or Kircher variety could be worked into
rhyme. Thid is Blackmore’s account of the mountains :

These strong unshaken mounds resist the shocks
Of tides and seas tempestuous, while the rocks
That secret in a long continued vein
Pass through the earth, the ponderous pile sustain ;

These mighty girders whtoh^he fabric bind,

These ribs robust and vast in order joined

THK OLD fiCHOOt

88

'Ricgo Babtorranean wall«, disponecl with art,

Such strcnKth and such atability impart
That sloims beneath and earthquakes undeiKpround
' Break not the pillarh nor tlic woijt confound.

> >

^ad mctaphygics arc too easily converted into ex-
ecrable poetry, and it is not surprising that a dis-
sertation on filial causes makes v<*ry indifierent verses.
Indeed, it would bo absurd to expect tlfat poets should
make use of raw science or philosophy ; though they
may turn to account the results obtain(>d by scientific
thinkers, and profit by the habits of close observation of
naturq which they have ineulcat(‘d. Before anybody
had ever looked into the mountains closely, classified
their fiora and catalogued their ^trata, it was impossible
for a poet to do bettorthan make a few random allusions
to their mo^t obvious features. Sven if he had pos-
sessed the necessary knowledge, he might as w'ell have
written ^iu Hebrew as talked about glaciers or ava-
lanches. Anything which is to be afit object for poetical
/management must be already associated with some
strong feeling in the mind of the audience as well as of
the writer. The speculations in natural theology to
which the mountains gave rise were espe<‘ially unsuit-
able for p«)otry. That was the era of applying common
sense to theology, from which it has since been banished
effectually enoiTgh. In other words, the philosophers of
that time had an undoubted ctufidence in their powers
of explaining everything, jyid seem to have considered
the Supreme Being as a highly intelligent ruler whose

D

84 THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPK

C

purposes might be very fairly imderstood and whose
legal position in regard to mankind could be accurately
defined. Poetry is out of place when mysteiy dis-
appears, and the deeper religious m6tives are for the
time banished from the world. Our imaginations may
be«wed when we look at the mountains, from a purely
scientific point of view, as monuments of the slow work-
ing of stupendohs forces of nature through eo\mtless
millenniams. But when we know precisely, by a
metaphysical demonstration, that they were made as
very large ‘ girders,’ they are not much more impressive
than the roof of a railway station. The moUcs of
operation which arc witliin the grasp of the metaphysi-
cian’s intellect are me&sured by the scale of his own
mind ; and an omnipotent Blackmore is only a very
strong Blackmore after all. The taste of 'the genera-
tion to which he belonged, though it ^ad many
advantages as compared with oar anarchical* state of
sentiment, was certainly not favourable to the emotions
due to sublimity of any kind- When Pope’s versi-'’^
fication, and Yiinbrugh’s architecture, and Locke’s
philosophy — all of them admirable things in their
way — were the highest ideals of mankind, it was not
to be exp^ted that Mont Blanc and the Jungfrau
should be duly appreciated. They* would hardly
hav^t<K>P^^> if they could have been consulted, to the
worship of such a generation. They came in with
the renewed admiration fSr Shakespeare, for Gothic
architecture, for the romantic school of art and litera-

THE OLD SCHOOL

85

tore, and with all that modern revolutionary spirit
which we are as yet hardly in a position to criticise.
I will endeavour shortly to point out in the following
section the mosll conspicuous names connected with
this great change of taste.

86

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

CHAPTER II

f

THE NEW SCHOOL

We may begin by enquiring at what precise period
the taste for mountain scenery became a recognised
and vigorous reality. The most direct testimony te this
purpose is that of Chateaubriand, who may be con-
sidered as the most distinguished devil’s advocate who
ever protested against the canonisation of the now
objects of reverence, and who had the audaciiy to assert
categorically and unequivocally that tlu; Alps were
ugly. I would be the last to suggest tlyit any j>erson
who maintains such heretical opinions, even at the
present day, ought to be summarily stoned or burnt.
It is quite possible for a scoffer at the Alps to be an
excellent father of a family, an honest politician, and
even to have glimmerings of good taste in other depairt-
ments of thtf beautiful. When, however, a man utters so
bold an opinion, it is worth while asking ^hat he means.
He may intend to say that he personally does not like
the Alps, which is of cotirse unanswerable ; or that
other people do not like them, which can only be met
by a peremptory negative ; or finally, that other people

THE NEW SCHOOL

87

ought not to like them— that, in short, a taste for
Alpine scenery, like a taste for prize-fighting or pigeon-
shooting, is in some way a proof of a depraved state of
the faculties. Chateaubriand is bold enough to argue
that the Alps do not give pleasnfe, though his argu-
ments on this head will scarcely trouble the faith of
true believers ; but he also says in substance, which is
to us more interesting, that if you admire the Alps you
must Ixt a revolutionist and a materialist. These are
ugly names', though the frequency of their use has
rather diminished their terrors ; but we may glance
shovtly at his line of argument. He tells us that the
mountains do not look so big as they really are. In
other words, a Frenchman «n his first visit to Cha-
mouni did nut appreciate the size of the objects before
him. Nothing could be more natural, and for the
simple rdasen that mountains, like all other superla-
tively abeautitpl objects, require long and affcctionjite
study before their charms are fully revealed. The
cockney who enters, the British Museum generally
prefers the stuffed hippopotamus to Jhe Elgin marbles ;
but that is not the fault of the Greek sculptors. Nor
is there much m the argument that you cannot see
a large part of the sky from a deep valley, or enjoy
a sunset at ^liamouni. The beauty of the celestial
canopy does not depend on the number of square yards
plainly visible ; if a certaifi strip is cut off near the
horizon, the balance is far more than redressed by the
apparent depth of the atmosphere, and the incomparable

88

THE PLAYOliOVND OF EVBOFE

superiority of the energetic nSountain mist to its lazy
lowland rival ; whilst as for sunsets, nobody can be
said to have seen a sijnsct who has not watched the
last Alpine glow dying off the everlasting snow-fields.
Chateaubriand’s ap{keals to the ancients who did not
care^for the mountains, or to the Bible where the
Mount of Olives (not, I believe, a very Alpine summit)
is mentioned only as the scene of superhuman agony,
need little answer. Perhaps the thunders of Sinai
might be quoted against him ; and one might venture
to remark that a certain view from an ‘ exceeding high
mountain ’ must at least have been considered as highly
attractive by a very good judge of human pleasures.
Chattoubriand admits, ^ conclusion, that the Alps
might do for an anchorite, and that they may form a
beautiful background *a long way off. *L«urs tetes
charnues,’ he says, ‘ Icurs flaucs dechfurues.leilrs meiu-
bres gigantesques, hideux quand on les ^ontcmple do
trop pres, sont admirables lorsqu’au fond d’un horizon
vapoureux ils s’arrondissent et se colorent dans one
lumiere fiuide et doree.’ And he thinks they would be
a suitable dwelling for an anchorite.

The true motive of Chateaubriand’s sacrilegious on-
slau^t on tlvB mountains was, as I have suggested, his
dislike to the supposed principles of their adorers. The
pae|don for mountain scenery, whose strerigth at the
time of his writing is attested by the energy of his
attack, was in his eyes a symptom of that revolutionary
impulse of which Bousseau was the first great exponent.

THE NEW SCHOOL

SausBure invented Mont Blanc, he tells us; but Bous-
seau was the arch-heretic who instituted a regular and
avowed worship of the Alps. It was of a piece with
his other scntimeutalisms and ravings against the
orthodox canons, whether of art oi* religion. Indeed,
Itousseau is accused, which at first sight seems rather
hard, of a * certain materialism,’ for exalting the
charms of mountain scenery. He .exaggerates the
influence of external nature over the spirit, and ftdls
into I'aptnres over stocks and stones which he should
have reserved for less tangible objects of worship.

1 imagine that this affiliation of our modern sen-
timent is substantially correct, and the fact throws
some light upon the grovyth of the new faith.
If Itousseau were tried for the crime of setting up
mountain^ as objects of human Vorship, he would be
convicted «by^y impartial jury. He was aided, it is
true, by accomplices, none of whom were more con-
spicuous than Saussure; and he had a few feeble
• precursors, one or two of whom shall be mentioned
directly. Luther was* preceded in his attacks upon
the ancient Church by such men *as Wicliffe and
Hubs ; many inventors had tried their hands on the
steam-engine before Watt made the great step towards
its perfection ; older navigators, it is said, had seen
the shores o^ America before they were reached by
Columbus. No great discovery or revolt falls entirely
to thp share of one lcu46r ; many have caught 4im
glimpses of the light before the rising of the sun. But

40

THE PLAYGUOUND OF EVUOPE

Bousseau, though partly adticipatcd, and though his

revelation had to be completed by various supplemen-

taryprdphets, may be;,oalled, without toomuch straining
of language, tho Columbus of the Alps, or the Luther
of tile new creed of mountain worship. He showed the
• premised land distinctly, if he did not himself enter
into and possess it. His title may bo esttiblishcd by
examining the date at which that doctrine first became
popular, and in some degree defining the change of
sentiment to which it was due.

Tho date, in the first place, may be fixed by two or
three simple facta. The dividing, line may be drawn
about 1760, and the Alps wero fairly inaugurated
(in modern phrase) a^a public playground by the
generation of travellers which succeeded ,the seven
years’ war. In 1760 Saussure paid his first visit to
Chamouni, and says that the route was ^hen both
dangerous and difficult ; though we may|bdd, witli some
patriotic pride, thatPocock and Wyndham, the earliest
forerunners of the great herd of British tourists, had '
penetrated so far os early as 1741. In 1761 Saussure
offered a reward for the discovery of a route to the
summit of Mont Blanc, and the quarter of a century
which elapsed between that time and the final accom-
plishment of his wishes may be regarded as the period
of the first great invasion of sightseers. ' Gibbon tells
us that in 1765 the fashion of * climbing the moun-
tain and reviewing the glaoters ’ had not yet been in
trpduced by foreign travellers. When he retired to

' THE NEW SCHOOL

41

Lausanne in 1783, fashioit, he says, had ‘ opened us on
all sides to the incursions of travellers.* We ‘may fix
the same period by comparing, two sturdy common- ‘
place authors o# that class which Mr. Carlyle em-
phatically describes as ‘wooden.’' They cannot be
suspected of the least gleam of originality, and, arc
therefore well (xualified to be witnesses to the ordinary
state of mind of their generation. •

Gruner, whose book, first published in 1760, was for
some time a standard authority, represents the last phase
of the old period. He talks freely of the ‘ horrors and
beauties ’ of the Alps, but we can easily see how the
terms ought to be distributed. He stands, for example,
on the Grimsel, where the trt^veller looks down ap<m
fertile valleys, and upwards to the wild ranges of Ober-
laud. The Haslithal and the Valais excite Gruner’d
unaffected actmiration ; but the masses of ice and snow
to east/ind we|t make him openly shudder. The bravest
chamois-hunters and crystal-finders will scarcely ven-
ture into the terrible valley of the Ober-aai' glacier ;
the region which stretches to its foot is a terrible desert ;
the mountain ranges lead to a desert, terrible in itself,
and inspire fear and horror. ' Horror,’ in short, is
always on his lips, though a dash of curiosity, not quite
uumixed with admiration, begins to penetrate at inter-
vals. Sixteen years later we find the good solid ortho-
dox British parson admirably reiiresented by Arch-
deacon Coxe. He was of» the type of those appalUng

' t

members of Parliament who now employ their vacation

42

THE FLAYGEOUND OF EUROPE

ill amassing materials for blu#>book8. He differs from his
pleasurb-seekiug successors, by condescending to take
an interest in the pol^ieal institutions of the country ;
^but he has an eye, such as it is, fer scenery. He
graciously approves the sights provided for him in a
respectable though a foreign region, and is sufficiently
candid to prefer the Linththal to Matlock. The lligi
seems to have been still a mere ‘ phenomenon of nature ’
in a geological point of view ; but our other old friends,
such as the Hhono glacier, the Handcck, and the
Beichenbach Falls, are already established objects of
interest. From Lautcrbrunnon he ‘contemplateawith
rapture ’ and astonishment part of the great central
chain * of the Alps.’ He ^en reaches the coavcnie on the
Mer de Glace, and admires, though he does not visit,
the Jardin. He is a fittle disappointed by tht^ glaciers
after the ‘ turgid accounts ’ which ho h%d heard and
read; but finally gives them his dis^ict approval.
Nay, he records the first ascent of the Titlis ; and 1
regret to add, for the credit of Alpine triiivellers, that
the first climber of that charming mountain not only
asserted , (what seems to have been a common opinion)
that it was second in height amongst Alpine peaks,
but declared that an amazing valley of ice stretched
from its foot ‘ almost to Mont Blanc.’ When 1 add
that Coxe prints a panorama of the Lake of Thun
from the summit of the Nicsen, it will be abundantly
dear that the career of the»m.odem tourist was fully
• open about a century ago.

THE NEW SCHOOL

43

We may say, then, that before the turning-point of
the eighteenth century a civilised being might, if he
pleased, regard the Alps with unmiijgated horror. After
it, even a solid arehdeacon, with a firm belief in the
British constitution, and Church and State, was com-
pelled to admire, under penalty of general reprobatiop.
It required as much originality to dislike as it had
previously required to admire. If wa ask by what
avenues the beauty of the Alps succeeded in first
revealing itself to an unpoctical generation, we shall
find two or three leading trains of sentiment which
gradually became popular. Housseau, whose * Nou-
velle Ilelo'ise ’ was first published in 1759, must, as
I have said, be considered as ^he main exponent of
the rising sentiment. I have already quoted him as
exhibiting a^ertain indifference to* our present objects
of admiration.. Yet in one sense he is susceptible to
the mountain uiflucnces ; he is in the right frame of
mind for a devout worship of the Alps, though the idol
has not yet been distinctly revealed to him. The
sentiment is diffused throughout the pages of the
* Nouvelle Heloise,’ which is ready to crystalliso into
more definite form so soon as the object is distinctly
presented. If he had lived a generation o» two later
he might have anticipated much of Mr. Euskin’s
eloquence. As it is, the absence of distinct reference
to the high Alps in one so naturally predisposed to
admire them is as significant of the general indifference
of his contemporaries as the predisposition itself is

44

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

significant of tlie approaching change. We are in the
early dawn, before the diffused light has been con-
centrated round ar definite centre. It follows that
Bousseau’s sentiments must be gathered rather from
the general tone of his writings than from any definite
pfissages. In the ‘ Oonfessions,’ indeed, there is an
explicit avowal of his hatred for the plains, and his
love of torrents, rocks, pines, black woods, rough paths
to climb and to descend, and precipices to cause a
delicious terror; and he describes two amusements so
characteristic of the genuine mountaineer that we fee
at once that he is in the right track. One is gaxing for
hours over a parapet at the foam-spotted waters of a
torrent, and listening to the cry of the ravens and birds
of prey that wheel from rock to rock a hundred fathoms
beneath him. The other is a sport whose charms are
as unspeakable as they are difficult of analysis. It is
fully described somewhere (if I remeipber rightly) by
Sir Walter Scott, and consists in rolling big stones down
a cliff to dash themselves to pieces at its foot. No one
who cannot contentedly spend hours in that fasci-
nating though simple sport really loves a mountain.
The leading passage, however, which was most fre-
quently quoted, and was probably in Chateaubriand’s
mind, occurs in the ‘Nouvelle Helojiso,’ where the
lover retires to the Valais and speculates with his
usual flow of language ufon the causes of his sensations.
He finds himself happier *than is quite becoming at
such a distance from Julie. He attributes this

THE NEW SCHOOL

45

undeniable happiness for* a time to the \7onderfal
spectacles before him. Ho\revcr, when it lasts over
another night and the following day, ho finds a better
explanation. Climbing the highest mountam near him,
and sitting down with the thunder and storm at his
feet, he traces the true cause of his exhilaration to the
state of the atmosphere. The pleasure conferred by
mountains is resolved into the favoiA'able influence
produced upon the digestion, and the tendency to pro-
mote insensible perspiration. It must be admitted that
this has a rather materialist sound, and tends to justify
the accusation above quoted from Cbatcaiibriand. It
is, indeed, characteristic of Rousseau to join his
most highilown sentiments widi very materialist ex-
planations. Let him throw the first stone who has
never felt Ins taste for scenery affected by the state
of his digestion, and whose love of the I)eantiful is
not in spme degree measured by the variations of th^
barometer. We cannot honestly omit from our cata-
logue of the charms of^ Alpine scenery the influences
whose immediate action is upon the lungs and the
stomach.

It matters, however, far less how a great writer
accounts for his feelings than how he feels? Rousseau
is disappointing when he takes to philosophy ; but his
sentiment, though often disgusting to modern readers
and intolerably long-winded iJl its expression, was the
cause of his extraordinarj^ power over the age. The
mode in which, as I imagine, he really taught men to

4G

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

love the mountains was by expressing vrith uneqnalled
eloquence that eighteenth-century doctrine which has
become so faded and old-fashioned for us. The denun-
ciations of luxury, the preferened' of a savage to a
civilised life, and all those paradoxes which our grand-
fathers discussed so seriously, and which we have
agreed to ridicule, though perhaps they had a very
real meaning ih them, naturally combined themselves
with a rather extravagant craving for wild as com-
pared with cultivated scenery ; and with a professed
admiration, which was not quite insincere, for the
simple pastoral life of primitive populations. T)ie love
of the mountains came in with the rights of man and
the victory of the philosophers ; and all the praise of
Alpine scenery is curiously connected with praise of
the unsophisticated peasant. It seems as -If the jihilo-
sophers fancied that they had found a fragment of the
genuine Arcadia still preserved by the Alpine barrier
against the encroachments of a corrupt civilisation, and
the mountains came in for §ome of the admiration
lavished upon ^he social forms which they protected.
Thus, for example, we may take a poem, which in its
day had a certain celebrity, composed by Haller the
distinguisBed physiologist, and published in 1728. It
was pronounced to be as sublime, and^ bid fair to be
as immortal, as the Alps themselves. It contains some
descriptions which imply a lively interest in the higher
ranges, and an intimate kncfWledge of their phenomena.
There is a striking picture of an Alpine sunrise, and

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47

a description of the Staubbach. A \vanderer, he ex-
claims,

Ein Wand’rer sielit erntaant im I^minel Btrome fliessen,

Die aus den Walken zieh’n and sich in Wolken {^icsBen;

a bold couplet in defence of which he thinks it neces-
sary to adduce, in a note, the testimony of a native who
lived near the then unfrequented wilderness of Lauter-
brunnen. The moral, however, which Haller has
most at heart is that which fills so large a space in the
contemporary literature. The absence of luxury, and
the charms of a simple life, are the main theme of his
song.* In the quiet Alpine valleys, he tells us with
great emphasis, there is no learning, but plenty of
common sense ; there is hard work, but security and
comfort; the drink is pure water, and the richest dishes
are made «f milk. Ambition and the thir st for gold
have not *co»rupted the Arcadian simplicity of the
natives, or iptroduced social inequalities. Evo{y
season of the year brings its appropriate labours and
its simple pleasures ; tliere is wrestling and putting of
weights and dancing on holidays; marriage is honoured,
and the heart always follows the hand. In short, the
mountains had still kept that much-abused Luxury at
bay ; and there, if anywhere, might be tound some
traces of thaj^ state of nature so ardently desired by
theorists and poets. The same sentiment, caught up
and repeated in various foAis, supplies much of the
ordinary rhetoric about the Alps for many years to
come. Goldsmith expresses it in the graceful versos

48

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

of ‘ The Traveller,’ when lie turns from the Italian
plains to survey the country

Where rougher clknes a nobler race display,

Where the bleak Swiss their stormy riansions spread,

And force a churlish soil for scanty bread ;

^Housseau, though the great teacher, had no mono-
poly of the doctrine. To ns it sounds a very f^ed and
dreary commonplace ; partly because our whole point
of view on such topics has considerably changed ; and
partly, it must be said, because Switzerland is about
the last place to which the hater of luxury would now
resort. The Swiss soil in these days is only ch^^rlish
and bleak enough to give additional zest to the hotels
of Chamouni and Inter^ken ; and the sturdy peasant
who then saw

No costly lonl the sumptuous banquet de%l
To make him loathe his vegetable meal, ^

has become very well accustomed to that spectacle,
and regards the said lord as his most reliable source of
TrinkgeMa- and other pecuniary advantages. Yet the
sentiment, though in a somewfiat altered form, is by
no means extinct. In one sense it is perhaps more
lively than ever. If the Swiss have lost something,
it may h» too much, of their churlishness, the
mountains themselves are fortunately impregnable
citadels of natural wildness. We may turn with
greater eagerness than ever from the increasing crowds
of respectable human beings to savage rock and
glacier, and the uncontaminated air of tlie High Alps.

THE NEW SCHOOL

4il

•

Nor, to say the truth, is the charm of the Alpine life
really so extinct as cockney travellers would persuade
us. There are innumerahle valleys which have .not
yet bowed the knee to Baal, in the shape of Mr. Cook
and his tourists ; and within a few hours of one of the
most frecjuented routes in Europe there are retired
valleys where Swiss peasants — I mentjon a fact — will
refuse money in exchange for their hospitality. ‘ It
may be remarked too, in passing, that most dcscribers
of scenery seem to dwell too little upon what may be
called the more human side of the pleasures of scenery.
The sitows of Mont Blanc and the eliifs of the ]\Iatter<
horn would have their charm in the midst of a wilder-
ness ; but their beauty is amazingly increased when a
weather-stained chalet rises in the foreground ; when
the sound of cowliells comes down tlirough the thin air ;
or the little trobp of goats returns at sunset to the quiet
village. • I say nothing of that state of society which*
has rendered possible the Aiuniergau mystery ; because,
to say the truth, 1 fear we must have seen nearly
the last of it, and am always expecting to hear of a
performance taking jdace at the Crystal Palace. If
the mountains could be swept clear of all ^ife which
has been growing up amongst them for centuries, and
which hai'monise them as the lichens mellow the scarred
masses of fallen rock, they wodd be deprived of half
their charm. The snowy ranges of California or the
more than Alpine heights of theCauciisusmay doubt-
less be beautiful, but to my imagination at least they

a

50

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

C

seem to be unpleasantly bare and chill, because they
are deprived of all those intricate associations which
somehow warm the Bleak ranges of Switzerland. The
early forms of this sentiment gave to the Alps a certain
moral value. They were the natural retreat of men
dfegusted with the existing order of things, profoundly
convinced of its rottenness ; and turning sometimes in
a sufficiently morbid and sentimental frame of mind to
the nearest regions which were still unspoilt or un-
improved by the aggressive forces of civilisation. If
virtue consisted in spinning your own cloth from your
own sheep, and confining your diet to black brdhd and
milk, it was to be found in the Alpine valleys. If the
sight of towns and palaces, and the ‘ abodes of luxury ’
generally, was suggestive of nothing but vice and
oppression, Paradise might be judiciouBly*8ought after
amongst the ' longs aretes de rochers*, les crevasses,
'^les trous, les entortillements dcs vaUces d(!« Alpcs,’
for which Chateaubriand expressed his sincere disgust.

This, at any rate, is reckoned amongst the charms
of the mountains by another writer of whom somethmg
must be said by every one who touches, however
lightly, on the subject. Saussure deserves the im-
feigned reverence of every true mountaineer. Saus-
sure, indeed, was primarily a man of< science ; but he
was one of the long series of Alpine travellers who
have illustrated by example the mode in which the
data supplied by science* may be turned to account
for poetical purposes. Headers of Forbes or Tyndall

THJi NEW SCHOOL

61

will not require to be told*how the accurate observation
of Alpine phenomena, and the patient interpretation of
the natural monuments, supplies the mountains with a
new language a^ imposing and sublime as that which
is spoken by the ruins of human workmanship. The
Pyramids or the broken arches of a Boman amphi-
theatre are not more impressive to the rightly prepared
understanding than the vast obelisk^ and towers, that
have been raised and carved and modelled by mys-
terious forces ihroughout ages of indefinable antiquity.
I liave sometimes doubted the justice of Wordsworth’s
denunciation of the gentleman who would peep and
botanise upon his mother’s grave. There are obvious
objections to the process ; but, after all, would not a
botanist of any sensibility bo more deepl.v affected by
the flowens whoso forms he had studied, and whose
beauty Infhatl learnt to appreciate, than the ordinary
observer who* has no special associations with t^e
objects confounded together under the general name
of weeds? At any, rate, the inquirers who have
peeped and botanised under the shaijpw of Mont Blanc
have proved that thek habits bad no tendency to
deaden thek love of nature. Though Saussure seldom
indulges in passages of set eloquence, his Appreciation
of mountain ^scenery is always breaking through
the drier details of scientific pursuits. Two well-
known passages record his ddlight in the calm summer
evenings spent during his*stay of sixteen days (a feat
almost unrivalled) on the summit of the Col du Geant ;

62 THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

•

and mention as the happiest hours of his life those
which he spent on the top of the Cramont in con-
templation of the soflthern precipices of Mont Blanc.
In the preface to his collected journeys Saussure
tries to explain the secret of his pleasure. From his
yohth, ho tells us, he had loved the mountains, and by
the age of eighteen had climbed all the hills round
Geneva. He afterwards visited the mountain dis-
tricts of England, France, Germany, and Italy. For
years he v/as prowling round the base of Mont Blanc,
till at length he followed Balmat to the summit.
The traveller, he says, who has surmounted the labour
of an ascent (for Baussuro had not quite risen to the
purely athletic pleasuft) will be ovei'whelmed for a
time with astonishqient. Then he will think with
wondering awe of the long series of sldw changes
which have built up the dome of Etna, or raised
t^e primeval ridges of the central Alps. He will
feel the pettiness of man in presence of those tre-
mendous forces to whose action the mountains bear
unmistaliable testimony. All the natm-al phenomena,
clouds and floods and storms and avalanches, have an
intensity of which the lowlandcr can form no con-
ception. And, finally, ho adds, the mountains have a
moral interest ; the Alpine peasant istfar nobler and
more independent than his relation in the plains ; and
he who has only seen the^abourer in the neighbourhood
of towns knows nothing of the true * man of nature.’

Saussure in this passage gives a condensed summary

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r>3

of the great poem of the Alps. They had been preaching
in vain to many generations which were obstinately
deaf, or had at best caught some/aiiit glimpses of their
meaning. The time had come for their voice to fall
upon congenial ears. On one hand, they might be
regarded as huge inarticulate Sphynxes suggesting
problems as to the growth of the world, the barest
statement of which affected the scientific imagination
with a sense of overpowering sublimity. On the
other, they served to offer an asylum to dreamers
like Kousseau who have tried, sometimes in very
inarticulate language, to tell us why the atmosphere
of the mountains is soothmg to minds out of harmony
with the existing social ordeia The feeling, which
cannot perhaps be very well reduced into logical
formula, nw-y be pretty well expressed in a passage
from Mr. Matthew Arnold’s friend Obermann. In tlie
lowlamls, he ^ays, tlie natural man is corrnpte|l
in breathing a social atmosjihere made turbid by
the sound of the arts, of our noisy ostentatious
pleasures, by our cries of hatred, and nioansof grief and
anxiety. ‘ Mais Iti, sur ccs monts deserts oil le ciel
est immense, oil I’air est plus fixe, et les temps moins
rapides, et la vie plus permanente; bi* la nature
entiore exprin^e eloquemment un ordre plus grand,
line liarmonie plus visible, un ensemble etemel. Lfi.,
I’homme retrouve sa forme alterable mais indestructible;
il respire I’oir sauvage lohi des emanations sociales;
son etre est it lui comme i\ I’univers ; il vit d’une

54

THE PLAYGEOUND OF EUROPE

vie reelle dans I’anite sublime.* If this cannot be
reckoned precisely as a philosophical statement of
truth, it is a poetical expression of the sentiment more
or less dimlypresent to the minds of all^ountain-lovers.
It is Bousseau’s doctrine in a more spiritual form.

•I will turn for a few minutes to another vein of
sentiment, which was worked out by a different school
of observers. £!vcn in the depth of the much- vilified
eighteenth century there were traces of the tastes
which in England first found distinct utterance in Sir
Walter Scott’s poetry, and have led to various strange
developments in later years. There was even* then
something which went by the name of the romantic ; and
which was tp our present sentiment what carpenters’
Gothic was to our elaborate revivals of mediaival art.

The correct remark to make about a bit of rough
scenery, if it was not too obtrusive oi» too actively
dangerous, was that it reminded you of Salvator Bosa.
Every now and then it might be admitted into descrip-
tions, though sparingly and as^t were under protest ;
as a tame rock or jpo, a bit of grotesque ruin, or a minia-
ture waterfall, might be permitted in a formal garden.
There was indeed little trace of that close observation
of nature wiiich we now consider to be essential ; but
the picturesque element could not be •altogether ex-
cluded. Here, for example, is a bit of what is now
called ' wmrd-painting ’ frbm Shaftesbury’s ’ Character-
istics.’ ’ Beneath the moufftain’s feet,’ he says, * the
rocky country rises into hills, a proper basis of the

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55

ponderous mass above; ^here huge embodied rocks
lie piled on one another, and seem to prop the high arch
of heaven. See with what trembling steps poor man*
kind tread the narrow brink of the deep precipices !
Prom whence with giddy horror they look down, mis-
trusting even the ground that bears them ; whilst they
hear the hollow sound of torrents underneath, and see
the ruin of the impending rock with falling trees which
hang with their roots upward and seem to draw more
ruin after them.’ This is not really a description of a
mountain, but of a rather big landslip. A touch or
two qf similar feeling ought to be discoverable in the
etters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, who passed
some years at Lovere, on the l^ago d'lseo, and deserves
some credit for the remark that it is a place ‘ the most
beautifully; romantic she ever sdw in her life.' The
enthusiasm rather loses its effect when we find her dis-
covering a close resemblance between Lovere and Tun-
bridge Wells, and afterwards comparing the gardens to
those on Bichmond Hill. We come to more distinct indi-
cations of the modem {endencies in the following gene-
ration. Horace Walpole anticipated* the taste of later
times in this as in many other ways. Walpole hod ven-
tured to declare explicitly that G-othic architecture was
at once 'magnificent and genteel ; ’ and w'e might expect
that he woul^ bestow equally judicious praise upon
the grander effects of Alpina scenery. The following
passage, written in 1739,^ay show that a fine gentle-
man of the rising generation could even then manufac-

<56 TEE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE •

tare a very fair imitation of* modern raptures. * But
the road, West, the road ! ’ he exclaims, on bis ^ay to
the Grande Chartreuse, * winding round a prodigious
mountain and surrounded with others, all shagged with
hanging woods, obscured with pines and lost in clouds !
Below, a torrent breaking through cliffs, and tumbling
through fragments of rocks ! Sheets of cascade forcing
their silver spe^d, and hasting into the roughened
river at the bottom! Now and then an old foot-bridge,
with a broken rail, a leaning cross, a cottage, or the
ruins of a hermitage ! This sounds too bombast and
romantic for one that has not seen it, too cold tof one
that has. If I could send you my letter post between
two lovely tempests that echoed eacJi other's wrath,
you might have some idea of this noble roaring scene,
as yon were reading it.’ This is at least e^nal to the-
modern guide-book. Walpole’s friend Conway, a
year or two later, declares that the Bhine shows the
‘ Inost rude romantic scenery, the most Salvator Bosa
you ever saw.’ And Gray wrote a Latin ode at
the Chartreuse, which later travellers frequently quote
as sublime, about the ‘ niveas rupcs ’ and ' fera juga,’

Clivosque pneruptoR, sonantdR

inter aquas, nemorumqne noctem.

Gray, indeed, has had the credit, on the strength of
his letters from the Lakes in 17B9, of liaving set the
fashion of mountaineering* The claim is clearly
untenable ; but, to do him, justice, 1 may quote one
aspiration for which we may give him due credit.

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67

Speaking of a young Swisft traveller, "he says, ‘ I have
a partiality for him because he was born amongst
mountains, and talks of them witji enthusiasm ; of tho
forests of pines which grow darker and darker as you
ascend, till the nemonim mr is completed and you are
forced to grope your way ; of the cries of eagles jyid
other birds of jirey adding to the horror ; in short, of
all the wqnders of his country which disturb my slum-
bers in Lovingland.’ Tho traveller, he adds, must stay
a month at J^nrich to learn (rerman, ‘ and tho mountains
must be traversed on foot, u/ve th'n fininponn aux mairnt
and fj^ioes of a peculiar eonstruetiou. I'd give my
ears to try ! ’ PcTliaps it is as well that h<‘ did not try
with'grimpons’ on his hands *but Gray may have the
credit of at least aspiring to become a genuine tourist
at a periocl when tho joiu-ney in^olve(l such serious
preparations..

In 'Vyalpoli'^s ecstasies there is, it may be, something
of an artificial ring, ^^'e feci that he would have been
capable of erecting a sham mountain at Strawberry
Hill, or man\ifacturing a toy cascade, and thinking
his playtlxings pretty nearly as good as the origuials.
Some men, who might perhaps have shown a deeper
feeling, were incapacitated by the simi>h‘ want of
opportunity. There is a melancholy passage in
Co^vper’s ‘ Tast ’ where he describes the view from an
* eminence ’ in tho neighbourhood of Olney. Nobody
can doubt that Cowper <(iva& the very man to love
momitain scenery ; but what is a poor poet to do with

58

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

snch mountains as rise on tfie banks of the Ouse ? A
commentator informs us that the view from this, the
nearest approach tokthe Alps in that district, was
* bounded on the north by a lofty quicScset hedge.’ The
imagination that would not be cramped by a quickset
hedge would be capable of raising the Serpentine to
the dignity of the Atlantic, or painting Niagara from
Teddington Wefr. Amongst the earlier poets of the
century there is at least one who had the benefit
of nobler models. It is proper, 1 hold, to admire
Thomson's * Seasons,’ and there is a certain number of
persons who are capable of working admiringly through
many hundred lines of descriptive blank verse. Even
IVordsworth admits that Thomson was a genuine
observer of nature, though of course he takes care to
add that he was admired rather for his fauJts than for
his beauties. Now Thomson knew the Scotch hills ;
(y, to use his own dialect, his Muse ha^ seen .

Caledonia in roioantic view,

Her airy mountains irom the waving main
Invested with a keen difTiisive sky,

Broathinffthc soul acute; her forests huge,

Ineult, robust, and tall, by nature’s hand
Planted of old ; her azure lakes between,

Poured out extensive and of watery wealth
Full; winding deep and green her fertile vales.

And so on ; which, if not very exalted poetry, bears at
least some traces of firathand touches from the land
of lochs and moors. Theqp and other verses deserve
more credit when we remember that they were written

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59

just at the same time when Captain Burt (quoted by
Lord Macaulay as a specimen of the contemporary
taste) was declaring his decided preference of Eich-
moud Hill to the Grampians. Moreover Thomson
liad to straggle against a disqualillcation only less
serious than that of the general indifference of the
time. He was, we know, ‘ more fat than bard beseems,’
and, many as are the virtues which naturally fall to
the lot of the fat, a true appreciation of mountain
scenery can hardly be reckonetl among them. When
a man’s circumference bears more than a certain ratio
to hi^ altitude, he prefei's the plains in the bottom of
his soul. Such admiration, then ‘fore, as Thomson
could express is doubly valudddc. I will venture to
quote one more passage as a fair specimen, which may
be put aloflhgside of Byron’s often quoted thunder-
storm, wliore*

Jura answers from her misty sliroud u

])ack to the laughing? Alps that call to her aloud.

Thomson’s version is ag follow s :

Amidst Carnarvon’s moiiutains rages loud
The vepercussive roar ; with mighty crash
Into the dashing deep from the liugc rocks
Of Penmaenmawr heai^ed liideous to the sky,

Tumble the smitton cliffs, and Snowdon’s peak
])is.solving, instant yields his wintry load ;

Far-soe*! the heights of heathy Cheviot blaze,

And Thul6 bellows through her utmost isles.

These, if I mistake not, aib good sonorous lines ;
though the expressions sdVour rather strongly of the
gigantesque ; and the storm is made to roar a little

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

too much in ‘Ercles’ vein.'’ The mountains arc, so
to speak, still in the background. The poetry may
remind us of an honest citisen of Berne who had
been in the habit of consuming his* evening pipe on
the terrace alwve the Aar. He sees huge forms in
the distance, almost beautiful when lighted by the
setting sun, but more often looming in vague sub-
limity through A distinct base, and gathering storms
about their mysterious summits. Ho never thinks of
approaching more closely, and holds that

The pikes, of darkness named and fear and storms,

'I

well deserve their titles. Thomson could admire liis
native hills, but he liked them best a long way off, and
could meditate most cheerfully on the frosty Caucasus
when it warmed his imagination by a comfortable fire-
side. His mountains are always vague^ glbomy, and
distant ; and his wandei'ings do not stretch beypnd the
cultivated regions at their feet. It is a melancholy
fact, too, that in one description he makes the summit of
a certain hypothetical mountain in Abyssinia ‘ stretch
for many a league.’

The growth of the modern spirit might prob-
ably be further illustrated from Ossian — if it were
now possible for any human being^ raised south
of the Tweed to read more than a page or two
of that strange twaddlA whose amazing popularity
throughout Europe is a cusious puzzle to our gene-
ration. Wordsworth labours to prove, what seems to be

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61

sufficiently palpable, thatliis mountains are wretched
daubs, and utterly unsatisfactory to any original ob-
server, Still a taste for daubs may be the precursor of
an appreciation (9f more genuine portraits. Certainly
there is something significant in the amazing appetite
of men in that generation for trash which* the humblest
stomach now rejects with indignation. Even Goethe,
for example, condescends to illustratb some remarks
about the scenery at Schaffhausen by a reference to
MaePherson’s bombast. Of Goethe’s original remarks
on the same subject it would be impertinent to offer
any specimens. It is enough to say that he has made
some philosophical remarks on the beauties of Alpine
scenery in his letters from Switzerland, and that his
enthusiasm about the ‘ wumlcrHvhoiies Wallhthal ’ and
the appalling dangers of the flirka rather outruns
the zeal bf ihe present generation. It would be
c({ually« absur^ to quote passages from the great
English poets of the beginning of this century and
to prove that Scott, Wordsworth, Shelley, and Byrou
loved the mountains and oxi)ounded their teaching with
a power which has met with no rivalry. We ai*c in
broad daylight, and have no need to remark that the
sun is shining. I need only remark how*much then-
poetry is affected, not only by mountain beauty in
general, but by the special districts which wore most
congenial to them. *

The Lake mountains discourse very excellent music,
and sometimes in favourable moments can rise to the

THU PLAYGIWUND OF KVliOPE

A

sublimity of the great ode bn the ' Intimations of Im-
mortality,’ or the song at the feast of Brougham Castle.
But it must be coi^essed that they arc a little too
much infested by the ‘ sleep that is^mong the lonely
hills,’ and can even at times di*op into the flat prose
vrUch fills ceHaiu pages of the ‘ Excursion.’ We can
understand how a poet brought up at their feet should
labour under a*permanent confusion of ideas between
Providence and the late Duke of Wellington*— a de-
lusion which would have been scarcely couecivahle
amongst the great central ridges which have shaped
a continent and fashioned the history of the .world.
Scott, too, might have been stimulated to a loftier
strain by the tonic ^f a few good glaciers iind
avalanches in place of his dnm])y heather -<’lad hills.

Coloi'idgc, Byroh, and bhelley have* each sung
hymns, after their fashion, to Mont Bls^c.* Coleridge
makes the monarch of mountains preach a vefy excel-
lent sermon, though I fear it is a plagiarism. There

are some good touches, as in tlie lines

•

Around thee and above
Deep is ttie air and dark, substantially black,

An ebon mass ; uietliinks thou plercrst it
As with a we<1go ;

%

but we feel him to be more at home in the fantastic
and gloomy scenery of * Kubla Khan ’*or the magical
icebergs of the ' Ancient J&fariner.’ The mountain air
is not congenial to opium-ej,ting. Byron’s mountains
treat us to some fine vigorous 2>oetry, and have filled

THK NEW SCHOOL

popular guide-books with* appropriate quotations, but
they are just a little too anxious to express their
contempt for mankind. To m}; taste, though 1 speak
with diffidence, fihelley’a poetry is in the most com-
plete harmony with the scenery of tlie higher Alps ;
and 1 think it highly creditable to the mountains IJiat
they should agree so admirably with the most poetical
of poets, lie tolls us that his familiarity with such
scenery was one of his qualifications. ‘ I have been
familiar,’ ho says, ‘ from boyhood with mountains and
lakes and the sea and the solitude of forests ; danger
whi(di sports upon the brink of precipices has been my
playmate ; 1 have trodden tlie glaciers of the Alps and
lived under the eye of Mont Blanc.’ Besides 'the
lines written in the Vale of Chamouui, his exquisite
sense for ihe ethereal l^eauty of the high mountains
pervades i» whole poetry. There is something essen-
tially eongeniji,l to his imagination in the thin atmo-
sphere of the upiier regions, with its delicate hues and
absence of tangible human interest, lie loves the
clouds, and watches them folding and sunning, lighted
up by the ‘ sanguine sunrise with his meteor eyes,’ or
gathered into solid masses, hanging ‘ sunbeam (iroof,
over a torrent sea,’ with unflagging enthusiasm. Now
the special glpry of mountain scenery, as Goethe has
told us, is that the clouds do not there present themselves
as fiat carpets spread oveifthe sky, but enable us to
watch them as they fortn and disperse, and roll up
the sides of the gigantic peaks. All through the

64

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

* Prometheus Unbound ’ we feel ourselves to be really
looking out from the top of some ‘ eagle-bafBing ’ ^eak,
not yet vulgarised by associations with guides and
picnics. We are where

Tho keen sky-cleaving mountains
^ From icy spires of sanlike radiance fling .

The dawn, as lifted Ocean’s dazzling spray,

From so^e Atlantic islet scattered up,

Spangles the wind with lampliko waterdrops.

And can hear

the rushing snow,

The sun-awakened avalanche - -whose mass
Thrice sifted by the storm had gathered here, ^

Flake after flake, in heaven-defying minds
As thought by thouglit is piled, till some great truth
Is loosened , and t^c nations echo round,

Shaken to their roots, as do tho mountains now.

Coleridge’s mountains of course adducp excellent
arguments in favour of theism; Byroads hidulge in
a few sneers at the insignificance of ^ankin^ ; and
Sihelley’s have ‘ a voice to repeal large codes of fraud
and woe, not understood by all,’ and, it is to be feared,
not very clearly by the poet himself. But all of them
are genuine mouhtains, so to speak, of flesh and blood,
not mere theatrical ])ropcrties constructed at second-
hand from eld poetical commonplaces. It is curious
from this iH)int of view to compare them with tho
mountains of another great poet, which were unluckily
constructed according to bis natural method, out of
his own self-consciousness, oi) rather, by the more really
characteristic method of indefatigable cram. Schiller

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65

* endeavours to give the local colour to ‘ William Tell ’
by cUnt of inserting little bits of guide-book information
about Switzerland. But Schill* had never seen the
Alps, and, in spite of certain criticisms in the true con-
ventional spirit, I venture to assort that the fact is
evident to every reader who in that respect has flie
advantage over him. He is aware, ipdeed, that cer-
tain forests maintained for protection against avalanches
arecalled BannwaUi, that there is a thing called a Stauh-
hunne, that hay-cutting is a dangerous trade, that
chamois-hunters do (or do not) cut their feet to glue
thcm&lves to the rocks with their blood, and so on.'
Some of his elaborate cram is brought in by the rather
clumsy device of making an Alpine peasant give in-
formation to his sons about matters which are as
familiar to*them .ns the nature of an omnibus to a
3’’oung cockno^ ; but that is a pardonable error in a
playwright. Jfeither can I complain that an innocent
reader would probably infer, from Schiller’s account,
that one of the most dtmgerons feats in Swiss travel-
ling is to cross the Lake of Lucerne in « very big barge,
for that is naturally suggested by the incident in Tell’s
story. But I confess that I am rather amazed by the
story of the gallant Arnold von Mclchthal, who recounts
his tremendous*adventnres to the conspirators at the
Biitli. He made, it seems, an expedition —

Durch tier Surennen^urchtbares Oebirg,

and there he is driven to the direst expedients. He

p

66 mE PLAYGBOUND OF EUROPE

has aciitiaUy to drink glacier-water, and to sleep in
abandoned chalets. If a chamois-hunter should en-
deavour to excite the 'compassion of his comrades by
the recital Of such expedients, 1 very much fear that
he would be strongly advised to abandon his profession.
Glacier-water used to be considered as a remedy for
many diseases, and though the popular superstition ill
now in the opposite direction, any traveller, poet or
peasant, is too glad to have an 'occasional draught.
Sleeping in a deserted chalet is the height of luxury,
unless we must suppose that the brave conspirator was
daunted at the thought of fleas. The passage s'trikes
us rather as if a man who had never seen the ocean
should represent Colum Ws as deterred from crossing the
Atlantic chiefly by the thought of sea-sickness. That
‘ William Tell ’ is an admirable play in ot^er rosi«Jcts
may be undeniable ; but I confess it appears to me to
fie a practical warning that the gonuincf^local cblouring
cannot be extracted from book.^ ; and that, in short, even
a poet had better see a placer before ho attempts to
describe it. *

I will not undertake to sum up the conclusions

which might be drawn from these rather desultory

remarks. My readers — for 1 may assume that my

readers are mountain-lovers — will agfee that the love

of mountains is intiniE^tely connected with all that is

noblest in human nature. If no formal demonstration

%

of that truth bo possible, our faith in it will be not the
less firm, and all the more meritorious. The true faith

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67

in these matters is not indeed a bigoted or exclusive
creed. I love everything in the shape of a mountain,
from Mont Blanc down to Hahi]>stead Hill ; but 1
also have some regard for the Fen Country and the
Hats of Holland. Mountain scenery is the antithesis
not so much of the plains as of the commonplace. *lts
charm lies in its vigorous originality; and if political
philosophers speak the truth, which I admit to be
an exceedingly doubtful proposition, the great danger
of modern times consists in our loss of that quality.
One man, so it is said, grows more like another;
natiohal costumes die out before monotonous black hats
and coats ; we all read the same ncwsj)aper8, talk the
same twaddle, are bound by th? same laws of propriety,
and are submitting to a uniform imposition of dull
respectabiltty. Some day, it is supposed, we shall all
be under ^ile^rdcrs of a Prussian drill-sergeant ; and,
as M. Michele# declares in his book on the mountains,
hi VHhjaritt. prevmuha. I do not enter upon these wide
social questions beyond expressing, by way of paren-
thesis, a general disbelief in all human predictions;
but I confess that, especially as regards scenery, there
is something to be said for such melancholy fore-
bodings. Lord Macaulay, for example, announces
with extreme satisfaction the advent of a happy day,
when cultivation will siwead to the top of Ifclvellyn,
and England, we must suppose, will be one gigantic
ploughed field, with occasional patches of coal- smoke.
Still more appalling is the prospect revealed to us by

08

THE PLAYOItOUND OF EUROPE

some American patriots. Their statistical prophecies
about the Mississippi valley have given me occasional
nightmares. Conceivc' of a gigantic chess-board many
hundreds of miles in length and breadth, with each
square so like its neighbom's that any two might be
changed in the night without its inhabitants detecting
the difference ; sijppose each square to be inhabited by
several millions of human beings as like as the denizens
of an ant-hill ; all of them highly educated persons,
brought up under school boards and public meetings
and church organisations, with no political or social
grievances ; and, in short, as somebody calls them,
intelligent and godfearing citizens. The imagination
fairly recoils from the pi^ospect in horror. We long to
believe that some earthquake may throw up a few
mountain-ranges and partition off the couhtry, so as
to give its wretched inhabitants a chance'Of developing
a ‘few distinctive peculiarities. Yet ewry where the
same phenomenon is being repeated on a smaller scale.
Life, we shall soon be saying, M'ould be tolerable if it
were not for our •fellow-creatures. They come about
ua like bees, and as we cannot well destroy them, we
are driven to fly to some safe asylum. The Alps, as yet,
remain. They arc places of refuge where we may escape
from ourselves and from our neighbours. There ^e
can breathe air that has not passed through a million
pair of lungs ; and drhak water in which the acutest
philosophers cannot discover the germs of indescribable
diseases. There the blessed fields are in no danger of

THE ^EW SCHOOL

being ‘ buzzed and mazed with the devil’s own team.’
Those detestable parallelograms, which cut up English
scenery with their monotonous hedgerows, are sternly
confined to thS valley. The rocks and the glaciers
have a character of their own, and are not undergoing
the wearisome process of civilisation. They look down
upon us as tliey looked down upon Ilannibal, and
despise our wretched bux*rowings at tfieir base. Human
society has lieen adapted to the scenery, and has not
forced the scenery to wear its livery. It is true, and
it is sad, that the mountains themselves are coming
dowvx ; day by day the stones are rattling in multitudes
from the Hanks of the mighty cliffs; tiiid even the
glaciers, it w'ould seem, are fetreating sulkily into the
deeper fastnesses of the liigh valjcys. And yet we may
safely say, as we can say of little else, that tlie Alps
will last buMime. They have seen out a good many
generations, *nd jx^ets yet unborn w'ill try to find
something new to say in their honour. Meanwhile it
should bo — I can hardly say it is — the purpose of the
following pages to prove that whilst; all good and xvise
men necessiU'ily love the mountains, those love them
best who have wandered longest in their recesses, and
have most endangered their own lives and those of their
guides in the attempt to open out routes amongst
them.

70

THE PLAYQROVNh OF EUROPE

CHAPTER lU

t

ASCENT OF THE SCnitEOKUOBN

Most people, I imagine, have occasionally sym-
pathised with the presumptuous gentleman who wished
that he had been consulted at the creation of the
world. It is painfully easy for a dweller in Bedford-
shire or the Great SahaEa to suggest material improve-
ments in the form of the earth’s surface. There are,
however, two or three districts in which «the archi-
tecture of nature disjdays so marvelloii»a fertility of
design, and such exquisite powers of* grouping the
various elements of beauty, that the builders of the
Parthenon or of the noblest Qothic cathedrals could
scarcely have altered them for the better. Faults may
of coarse be found with many of the details ; a land-
scape gardener would throw in a lake here, there he
would substitute a precipice for a gentle incline, and
elsewhere ho would crown a mountain by a more
aspiring summit, or base it on a more imposing mass.
Still I will venture to m^ntain that there are districts
where it is captious to find ftAilt ; and foremost amongst
them I should place the three best known glacier

THE" Sdj^BECKHOIiN 71

systems of the Alps. Etich of them is distinguished
by characteristic beauties. The mighty dome of Mont
Blanc, soaring high above the ranges of aiguilles,
much as St. ruitl’s rises above the spires of the City
churches, is perhaps the noblest of single mountain
masses. The intricate labj^rinths of ice and show that
spread westwards from the Monte Hosa, amongst
the high peaks of the Pennine range, are worthy of
their central monument, the unrivalled obelisk of the
Matterhorn. But neither Chamouni nor Zermatt,
ill my opinion, is eipial in grandwr and originality
of design to the Bernese Obcrland. No earthly object
that 1 have seen approaches in griuidcur the
stupoudous mountain wall whose battlements over-
hang in mid-air the villages of Lauterbrunnen and
Civindelwald ; the lower hills tliat rise beneath it, like
the long»A.tlanlic rollers beaten back from the granite
dills on our western coast, are a most effective contrast
to its stern magnificence ; in the whole Alps there i/no
ice-stream to be compared to the noble Aletsch glacier,
sweeping in one mojbstic curve from the crest (ff the
ridge down to the forests of the Bhone valley; no
mountains, not even the aiguilles of Mont Blanc, or
the Matterhorn itself, can show a more graceful out-
line than the Eiger — that monster, as we- may fiuicy, in
the act of bSmiding from the earth ; and the Wetter-
horn, with its huge basem^pt of cliffs contrasted with
the snowy cone that soap's so lightly into the air above,
seems to me to be a very masterpiece in a singularly

72 « THE FLAranoUl!^ 6f eveope

difficult «tyle ; but indeed* .every one of the seven
familiar Summits, whose very names stand alone in the
Alps for poetical significance — the Maiden, the Monk,
the Ogre, tlie Storm Pike, the Terror Pike, and the
Dark, Aar Pike — would each repay the tnbst careful
sti^y <!lf the youthful designer. Four of these, the
Jungfrau, Monch, Eiger, and "Wcttei'horn, stand like
watchhouses on the edge of the cliffs. The Jimgfrau
was the second of the higher peaks to be climbed ; its
summit W'as reached in 1828, move than forty. years
after SaussureXtLfrst ascent of Mont Blanc. The
others, together with the Finstoraarhorn and Al^tscli-
horn^lnul fallen before the /cal of Swiss, Gennan,
and l^pgush travellers ;,but in 1801 the Schreckhorn,
tlie most savage and forbidding of all in its aspect,
still frowned dehance*upon all comers. ,

The Sclureckhornei* form a ridge of ^’ocky peaks,
forking into two ridges about its centre, the ground-
plan of which may thus be compared to the lettm* Y.
The .foot of tliis Y represents the northern extremity,
and% formed by the massive Mettenberg, whose broad
faces of cli^ divide the two glaciers at Grindelwald.
Half-way along the stem rises the point cfj|led the Little
Schreckhorij^ iphe two chief su^pimits rise close to-
gether at the point where the Y forks. The thicker
of the two branches represents the black line of cliffs
running down to the Absehwun^; the thinner repre-
sents the range of the Btrahlhomer, crossed by the
Strahleck pass close to its origin. Mr. Anderson, in'

TBE SC^ECKHOliN 78

the first series of ‘Peaks and Passes,’ describes an
attempt to ascend the Schreckhorn, made by him
under most unfavourable circufastances ; one of his
guides, amongst dther misfortunes, being knocked down
by a falling stone, whilst the whole party were nearly
swept away by an avalanche. His courage, howe\5pr,
did not meet with the reward it fully deserved, as bad
weather made it impossible for him to attempt more
than tlie Little Kchreckhorn, the summit of which ha
succeeded" in rcivching. A more successful attack hud
been made by MM. JJosor and Escher von der Xinth,
in Htarting froni the Strahlcck, they had

climbed, with considerable difficulty, td a ridge leading
apparently to tlie summit of the Schreckhorn. After
following this for some distance, they were brought to
a stand-stiU by a sudden depression some ten or twelve
feet in depth, jvhich was succeeded by a very sharp
arete of snow.. Whilst they were hesitating what to
do, one of the guides, in spite of a w'arning shriek
from his companions, and without waiting for a rope,
suddenly sprang down so as to alight astride of the
ridge. They followed him more cautiously,'and, ani-
mated to the tiask by a full view of the summit, forced
their way slowly along a very narrow andfdangcrous
arete. They r^eached the top at last triumphantly,
and, looking round at the view, discovered, to their
no small disgust, that to the north of them was. another
summit. They had indeed proved, by a trigonometrical
observation, that that on which they stood was the

74

THIS FLAYdBOVfD OF EUnoPE

bighest ; but in spite of frigoiiometry, the northern
peak persisted in looking down on them. As it was
cut off from them h^ a long and impracticable arete
some three hundred yards (in my* opinion more) in
length, they could do nothing but return, and obtain
apother trigonometrical observation. This time the
northern peak came out twenty-seven metres (about
eighty-eight felt) the higher. It was, apparently, the
harder piece of work. Even big Ulrich Lauenor
(who, I must admit, is rather given to croaking) once
said to me, it was like the Mattei'horn, big above and
little below, and he would have nothing to do Avil^^ it. In
1861, however, the prestige of the mountains was rapid ly
-declining. Many a npblc peak, which a few years be-
fore had written itself inaccessible in all guide-books,
hotel registei's, anff poetical descriptions^of the Alps,
had fallen an easy victim to the skill courage of
^Swiss guides, and the ambition of their employers. In
spite, therefore, of the supposed difficulties, 1 was
strongly attracted by the charms of this last uncouquered
stronghold of the Oberland. 'W^as there not some inffni-
tesimal niche in history to be occupied by its successful
assailant ? The Schrcckhorn will probably outlast even
the British Constitution and the . Thirty-nine Articles :
so long as it lasts, and so long as Murray and Baedeker
describe its wonders for tbc benefit of successive gene-
rations of tourists, its*fiTst conqueror may be carried
down to posterity by clinging to its skirts. If ambition
whispered some such nonsense to my ear, and if 1 did

75

THE 8CI4^BCKH0HN

not reply that we are all destined to immortal fame so
long as parish registers and the second column of the
‘Times’ survives, I hope to be not too severely blamed.
I was old cnough*to know better, it is true ; but this
happened some years ago : and since then I have had
time to repent of many things. ,

Accordingly, on the night of August 13, 1861, I
found myself the occupant of a small hole under a big
rock near the northern foot of the Strahleok. Owing
to bad diplomacy, I was encumbered with three guides
— Peter and (Hiristian Michel, and Christian Kauf-
inanni-all of them good men, but one, if not two, too
many. As the grey morning light gradually stole
into our burrow, 1 woke up with a sense of lively im-
patience— not diininislied, perhaps, by the fact that one
side of me seemed to bo x>ermanently impressed with
every knob i??.ji singularly cross-grained bit of rock,
and the other, with every bone in Kaufmann’s bod^.
Swallowing a bit of bread, I declared myself ready.
An early start is of course always desirable before a
hard day’s work, but it rises to be almost agreeable
after a hard night’s rest. This did not seem to be old
Peter Michel’s opinion. He is the very model of a
short, thick, broad mountaineer, with the Constitution
of a piece of s^soned oak ; a placid, not to say stolid,
temper ; and on illimitable appetite. He sat opposite
me for some half-hour, calmly munching bread and
cheese, and meat and butter, at four in the morning,
on a frozen bit of turf, under a big stone, as if it were

76 THE PLAYGSOJND OF EOBOPE

the most reasonable thing a man could do under the
circumstances, and as tliough such things as the
Schreckhom and impatient tourists had no existence.
A fortnight before, as 1 was told, he had calmly sat
out all night, half-way up the Eiger, with a stream of
freezing water trickling over him, accompanied by
an unlucky German, whose feet received frost-bites on
that occasion *from which they were still in danger,
while old Michel had not a chilblain.

And here let me make one remark, to save repetition
in the following pages. I utterly repudiate the doctrine
that Alpine travellers arc or ought to be the heroes of
Alpine adventures. The true way at least to describe
all my Alpine ascentscis that Michel or Auderegg or
Lauener succeeded in performing a feat requiring skill,
strength, and courage, the difficulty of which was much
increased by the difficulty of taking wi^ihifn his knap-
sack and his employer. If any passagqp in the succeed-
ing pages convey the impression that 1 claim any credit
except that of following better men than mj'self with
decent ability, I disavow them in advance and do penance
for them in my heart. Other travellers have been
more independent : 1 speak for myself alone. Mean-
while I will only delay my narrative to denounce one
other heresy — that, namely, which as^pi’ts that guides
are a nuisance. Amongst the greatest of Alpine plea-
sures is that of learniilg to appreciate thq capacities
and cultivate the good will of a singularly intelligent
and worthy class of men. 1 wish that all men of the

THE Si

same class, in England
pendent, well-informed, and trustworthy as Swiss
mountaineers ! And now, ha vinj^ discharged my con-
science, I turn to “my stoiy.

At last, ulxmt half-past four, we got deliberately
under weigh. Our first two or three hours’ work was
easy enough. The two summits of the Schreckhorn
form as it were the horns of a vast crescent of precipice
which runs round a secondary glacier, on the eastern
l>ank of the Griiidelwald glacier. This glacier is skirted
on the south by the ordinary Strahleck route. The
cliffs above it are for the most part bare of snow, and
scored by deep trenches or gullies, the paths of ava-
lanches, and of the still more terrible show'ers of stones
which, m the later part of the daj^ may bo seen every
five minuteu discharged down the flank of the moun-
tain. I was facy sanguine that w'e should reach the
arete conuectiug the two x>oaks. I felt doubtful, how-^
over, whether we could pass along it to the summit,
as it might bo interrupted by some of those gaps which
HO nearly stopped Dcsor’s party. 01^ Michel indeed
had declared, on a reconnoitring expedition I had made
with him the day before, that he believed, * Hteif and
feat,' that we could get up. But as we climbed the
glacier my faith in Michel and Co. began to sink, not
from any failing in their skill as guides, btxt from the
enormous fxppetites which th8y still chose to exhibit.
Every driblet of water sedhied to be inseparably con-
nected in their minds wuth a drop of brandy, and every

m^ECKHOBE 77

and elsewhere, were as inde-

78 THE Playground of Europe

flat stone suggested an open-air picnic. Perhaps my
impatience rather exaggerated their delinquencies in
this direction ; but it was not till past seven, when we
had deposited the heavy part of our baggage and, to
my delight, most of the provisions on a ledge near
the foot of the rocks, that they fairly woke up, and
settled to their ^task. From that time 1 had no more
complaints to make. Wo soon got hard and steadily
at work, climbing the rocks which form the southern
bank of one of the deeply-carved gullies of which I
have spoken. It seemed clear to me that the summit
of the Sohreckhorn, which was invisible to us atpfesent,
was on the other side of this ravine, its northern bunk
being in fact formedf" by a huge buttress running
straight down from the peak. This buttress was cut
into steps, by cliffs so steep as to be perfe&tly inqn’ac-
ticable ; in fact, I believe that in one {dace it abso-
lutely overhung. It was therefore necessary to keep
to the other side ; but I felt an unpleasant suspicion
that the head of the ravine might correspond with an
impracticable gqj) in the arete.

Meanwhile we had simply a steady piece of rock-
climbing. Christian Michel, a flrst-ratc cragsman, led
the way. 'Kaufmann followed, and, as wc clung to the
crannies and ledges of the rock, relieved his mind by
sundry sarcasms as to the length of arm and leg whicli
enabled me to reach points of support without putting
my limbs out of joint— an afflvantage, to say the truth,
which he could well afford to give away. The rocks

71)

THE SCH^ECKHOBN

were steep and slippery, and occasionally covered with a
coat of ice. We were frequently flattened out against
the rocks, like beasts of ill repute nailed to a barn, with
fingers and toes inserted into four different cracks
which tested the elasticity of our frames to the utter-
most. Still our progress though slow was steady, and
would have been agreeable if only our minds could
have been at ease with regard to that detestable ravine.
We could not obtiiiii a glimpse of the final ridge, and
we might be hopelessly stopped at the last step. Mean-
while, as we looked round, we could see the glacier
basinfi gradually sinking, and the sliiU'p pyramid of the
Pinsteraarhorn shooting upwards ab(jve them. Gradu-
ally, too, the distant ranges ftf Alps climbed higher
and higher uj) the southern horizon. Prom Mont
Iflanc to Mtinte llosa, and away to the distant Bernina,
ridge boyo’mf aidge rose mto the sky, with many a
well-remembeivd old friend amongst tlnmi. In twp
or three houi's' work we had risen high enough to look
over the ridge connecting the two peaks, down the
longreacdics of the Aar glaciers. A fqw minutes after-
wards wo caught sight of a row of black dots creeping
over the snows of the Strahleck. With a telescope I
could just distinguish a friend whom I had fiaet the day
before at Grindelwald. A loud shout from us brought
back a faint reply or echo. We were ah-eady high
above the pass. Still, howSver, that last arete re-
mained pertinaciously in^ffsible. A few more steps, if
steps is a word applicable to progi’ession by hands as

00 . THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

\rell as. feet, placed us at last on the great ridge of the
mountain, looking down upon the Lauteraar Sattel.
But the ridge rose betw'een ns and the peak into a kind
of knob, which allowed only a few ^ards of it to be
visible. The present route, as I believe, leads to the
ridge at the point further from the sunlmit of the
mountain. We^were, however, neai* the point where a
late melancholy accident will, it is to be lioped, impress
upon future travellers the necessity of a scrupulous
adherence to all recognised precautions. The scene
was in itself significant enough for men of weak nerves.
Taking a drop of brandy all round, we turned 1k) the
assault, feeling that a few yards more would decide the
question. On our righi hand the long slopes of snow
ran down towards the Lauteraar Sattel, as straight as
if the long furrows on their surface had been drawn by
a ruler. They were in a most ticklijdr* sfate. The
snow seemed to be piled up like loosa sand, at the
highest angleof rest, and almost without cohesion. The
fall of a pebble or a handful of,snow was sufficient to
detach a layer, wlpch slid smoothly down the long slopes
with a low ominous hiss. Clingihg, however, to the
rocks which formed the crest of the ridge, we dug our
feet as far ds possible into the older snow beneath, and
crept cautiously along. As soon as the^ie was room on
the arete, we took to the rocks again, and began with
breathless expectation dlimbing the knob of which
1 have spoken. The top of* the mountain could not
remain much longer concealed. A few yards more,

THE

^OI^BE

BECKHOBN

W

and it came full in view. The next step revealed to
me not only the mountain top, but a lovely and almost
level ridge which connected it witti our standing-point.
We liad won theVetory, and, with a sense of intense'
satisfaction, attacked tlio short ridge which still divided
us from our object. It is melancholy to observe the
shockingly bad state of repair of the higher peaks, and
the present was no exception to the rule. Loose stones
rattled down the mountain sides at every step, and the
ridge itself might be compared to the ingenious contri-
vance which surmounts the walls of gaols with a nicely
balansed pile of loose bricks — supposing the interstices
in this case to bo filled with snow. We crept, how-
ever, cautiously along the parapet, glancing down the
mighty cliffs beneatli us, and thei^ at two steps more,
we proudly •stepped (at 11.40) on to the little level
platform whieliiorms the ‘ allerhochste Spitze ’ of the
Schreckhorn. • •

I need hiu-dly remark that our first proceeding was
to give a hearty cheer, ^'hich was faintly returned by
the friends who were still watching us /rom the Strah-
leck. My next was to sit down, in the warm and
perfectly calm summer air, to enjoy a pipe and the
beauties of nature, whilst my guides orecte<f a cairn of
stones round a iarge black flag which we had brought
up to confute cavillers. Mountain tops are always
more or less impressive in onc*way ---namely, from the
giddy cliffs which surrounti them. But the more
distant prospects from them may be divided into two

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

classes: those from the Wetterhorn, Jungfrau, or
Monte Bosa, and other similar mountains, \7hich
include on one side the lowland countries, forming a
contrast to the rough mountsiin ranges ; and those from
mountains standing, not on the edge, but in the very
cCntre of the regions of frost and desolation. The
Schreckhorh ^ke the Finsteraarhom) is a grand
example of this latter kind. Four great glaciers seem
to radiate from its base. The great Oberland peaks —
the Finsteraarhorn, Jungfrau, Moneb, Eiger, and
Wetterhorn — stand round in a grim circle, showing
their bare faces of precipitous rock across the Mreary
wastes of snow. At your feet are the ‘ urns of the
silent snow,’ from which the glaciers of Grindelwald
draw the supplies that enable them to descend far into
the regions of ciiltirated land, trickling down like great
damp icicles, of insignificant mass con^threcl with these
•mighty reservoirs. You are iu the centre of a whole
district of desolation, suggesting a landscape from
Greenland, or an imaginary picture of England in the
glacial epoch, with shores yet m^visited by the irre-
pressible Gulf Hlream. The charm of such views — little
as they af e generally appreciated by professed admirers
of the picluresquo -is to my taste unique, though not
easily explained to unbelievers. They have a certaui
soothing influence like slow and stately music, or one
of the strange opium dreams described by De Quincey.
If Ilia journey in the mail-coach could have led him
through ail Alpine pass instead of the quiet Cumberland

THE SOHBKCKnORN

88

hills, he would have seen visions still more poetical
than that of the minster in the ‘ dream fugue.’ Unable
as T am to bend his bow, 1 can 6nly say that there is
something almost unearthly in the sight of enormous
spaces of bill and plain, apparently unsubstantial as a
mountain mist, glimmermg away to the indistiset
horizon, and as it were spell-bound by,an absolute and
otorual silence. The sentiment may be very different
when a storm is raging and nothing is visible but the
black ribs of the mountains glaring at you through
jrents in the clouds ; but on that x>erfect day on the top
of tht^chrcckhorn, where not a wreath of vai>our was
to be scon under the whole vast canoiiy of the sky, a
delicious lazy sense of calm repifthe was the ai)propriate
frame of mind. One felt as if sv^me immortal being,
with no iiojytieular duties uj^on his hands, might be
calmly sittui}^ upon those desolate rocks and watching
the little shad(jwy wrinkles of the idain, that were really
mountain ranges, rise and fall through slow geological
epochs. 1 had no companion to disturb my reverie or
introduce discordant associations. An hour passed
like a few minutes, but there were still dilllcultics to be
encountered which would have made any longer delay
unadvisjible. 1 therefore added a few touches to our
cairn, and thei* turned to the descent.

It is a general opinion, with which I do not agree,
that th.e descent of slipijory or difficult rock is harder
than the ascent. My guicles, however, seemed to bo
fully convinced of it ; or perhaps they merely wished

84

THE PLAYGBOVND OF EUBOPE

to prove, in opposition to my Bcei)tical remarks, that
there'was some use in having three guides. Accord-
ingly, whilst Christi&n Michel led the way, old Peter
and Eaufmanu persisted in planting themselves steadily
in some safe nook, and then hauling at the rope round
my waist. By a violent exertion and throwing all my
weight on to l^ic rope, 1 gradually got myself paid
slowly out, and descended to the next ledge, feeling as
if I should he impressed with a permanent groove to
which ropes might be fixed in future. The process
was laborious, not to say painful, and 1 was sincerely
glad when the idea dawned upon the good fellowsthat I
might he trusted to use my limbs more freely. Surlonf
point de zile is occasiolially a good motto for guides
as well as ministers.^

I have suffered worse things on aw'kward places
from the irregular enthusiasm of my*' companions.
Kever shall 1 forget a venerable guide at Kippel,
whose glory depended on the fact that his name
was mentioned in The Book, viz. Murray’s Guide.
Having done npthing all day to maintain his repu-
tation, he seized a favourable opportunity as wo were
descending a narrow arete of snow, and suddenly
clutching my coat-tails, on pretence of steadying me,
brought me with a jerk into a sitting position. My
urgent remonstrances only produced bursts of patoin,
mixed with complaeonf chucklings, and I was forced
to resign myself to the fat^of being palled backwards,
all in a heap, about ev«ry third step along tbe arete.

THE SCHRECKHOBN

85

The process gave the old gentleman such evident
pleasure that I ceased to complain.

On the present occasion my guides were far more
reasonable, and T] would never complain of a little
extra caution. We were soon going along steadily
enough, though the slippery nature of the rocks, and
the precautions necessary to avoid ijislodging loose
stones, made our progress rather slow. At length,,
however, with that instinct which good guides always
show, and in which amateurs arc most deficient, we
came exactly to the point where we had left our
knapsacks. We were how standing close to the ravine
1 have mentioned. Suddenly 1 heard a low hiss close
by me, and looking round Saw a stream of snow
shooting rapidly down the gully^ like a long white
serpent, ^was the most insidious enemy of the
mountaineer^ iVi avalanche ; not such as thunders
down the cliffs^of tlie Jungfrau, ready to break every
bone in your body, but the calm malicious avalanche
which would take you (npietly off your legs, wrap you
up in a sheet of snow, and ])ury you Jp a crevasse for
a foAV hundred years, without making any noise about
it. The stream was so narrow and well defined that I
could easily have stepped across it ; still it was rather
annoying, inasmuch as immediately below us w'as
a broad fringe of snow ending in a bergsehrund, the
whole being in what travellers used to represent as
the normal condition of iflountain snow — such that
a stone, or even a hasty expression, rashly dropped,

B6

THE PLAYOROrND OF EUROPE

would probably start an avalaneho. Christian !Nfichel
showed himself equal to the occasion. Choosing a
deep trench in the show — the channel of one of these
avalanches — from which the upper layer of snow was
cut away, he turned his face to the slope and dug his
toes deeply into the firmer snow beneath. We followed,
tryinginevery\^ay to secure our hold of the treacherous
footing. Every little bit of snow that wc kicked aside
started a young avalanche on its own account. By
degrees, how'ever, we reached the edge of a very broad
and repulsivo-looldng bergsehrund. Unfixing the rope,
we gave Kaufmann one end, and sent him carefully
across a long and very shaky-looking bridge of snow.
He got safely across, alkid w'c cautiously followed him,
one by one. As th^‘ last man reached the other side,
we felt that our dangers were over. It now about
five o’clock.

• Wd agreed to descend by the Strahleck. Great
delay was caused by our discovering that even on the
nearly level surface there wa^ a sheet of ice formed,
which required piany a weary step to be cut. It was
long before we could reach the rocks and take off the
rope for a race home down the sloi^es of snow.

As we reached our burrow we were gratified with
one of the most glorious sights of the mountains. A
huge cloud, which looked at least as lofty as tho Eiger,
rested with one extremity of its base on the Eiger, and
the other on theMettcnbcrg,^hooting its white pinnacles
high up into the sunshine above. Through the mi^ty

TEE SCHRECKHOBN

87

arched gateway thus formed, we could see far over
the .successive ranges of inferior mountains, standing
like flat shades one behind another. The lower slopes
of the Mettenber^ glowed with a deep hlood-red, and the
more distant hills passed through every shade of blue,
purple, and rose-coloured hues, into the faint blue^of
the distant Jura, with one gleam of green sky beyond.
In the midst of the hills the Lake of Thun lay,
shining like gold. A few peals of thunder echoed
along the glacier valley, telling us of the storm that
w’as raging over Grindelwald.

Ifwwas half-past seven when we reached our lair.
AVe consequently had to pass another night there -a
necessity which would have Ijpen easily avoided by a
little more activity in the morning.

It is a kijdable custom to conclude narratives of
mountain weents by a compliment to tlie guides who
have displaye^l their skill and courage. Here, how-
ever, I shall venture to deviate from the ordinary
practice by recording an anecdote, which may be in-
structive, and which well deserves to bo remembered
by visitors to Grindelwald. The guules of the Ober-
land have an occasional weakness, which Englishmen
cannot condemn with a very clear conscience, for the
consumption strong drink ; and it happened that
the younger Michel was one day descending the well-
known path which leiuls from the chalet above the so-
called Eistneer to Grindelwald in an unduly convivial
frame of mind. Just above the point where mules are

88^ THE PLAYOBOUND OF EUBOPE

t'^

generally left, the path rnns close to the edpe of an
overhanging cliff, the rocks below having beeh scooped
out by (he glacier in old days, when the glacier was
several hundred feet above its present level. The
dangerous place is guarded by a wooden rail, w'hich
unluckily terminates before the cliff is quite passed.
Alichel, guiding himself as it may be supposed by the
rail, very naturally stepped over the cliff when the
guidance was prematurely withdrawn. I cannot state
the vertical height through which he must have fallen
on to a bed of hard uncompromising rock. 1 think,
however, that I am within the mark in saying that it
cannot have been much less than a hundred feet. It
would have been a lesstdangcrous experiment to step
from the roof of the tallest house in London to the
kerbstone below, l!l^ichcl lay at the bottom all night,
and next morning shook himself, got ap,*uhd walked
home sober, and with no broken bones. - 1 submit two
morals for the choice of my readers, being quite
unable, after much reflection, to decide which is the

c

more appropriate. The first is, Don’t get drunk when
you have to wallc along the edge of an Alpine cliff;
the second is. Get drunk if you are likely to fall over
an Alpine cliff. In any case, see that Michel is in
his normal state of sobriety when yoi^ take him for
a guide, and carry the brandy -flask in your own
pocket.

89

CIIAPTEll TV
'I'HK noTinroRN

The little village of Zinal lies, as I need hardly
inform my roadora, deep in llicroopsspsof the Pennine
chain. Horae time in the ^liddle Ages (I apeak on tin*
indispntahle anthoi’ity of Murray) the inhabitants of
tin* surrounding valleys nereconvertid to Christianity
by the efforts of a bishop of Hifn. From that time till
the year 180 1 1 know little of its history, with the ex-
ception of facts— one, that till lately the natives
used holetf m their tables as a substitule for plates,
(*ach member pf the family deixisiting promiscuously
his share of the family meals in his own particular
cavity ; the other, that a (lermau traveller was
murdered between Zinal and Evolena in 1HG3. This
information, however, meagre as it is, illustrates the
singular retirement from the world of these exquisite
valleys. The great road of the Himplon has for years
carried crowds^of traxellers past the opening of their
gorges. Before its construction, Uousseau and Goethe
had celebrated the charms of the main i alley. During
the last twenty years Zi'rmatt has been the centre
of attraction for thousands of tourists. And yet, so

90

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

feeble is the curiosity of mankind, niul so shceplike are
the habits of the ordinary traveller, that these remote
fastnesses still retain much of their piimitive seclusion.
Evolena, Zinal, and the head of the Thrtman Thai, are
still visited only by a few enthusiasts. Even the Haas
vt^ley, easily accessible as it is, and leading to one
of the most justly celebrated of Alpine passes, attracts
scarcely one in a hundred of the many visitors to
the twin valley of Zermatt. And yet those who have
climbed the slop('s behind the village and seen the
huge curtain of ic(* let down from the summits of the
mighty range between the Dom and Monte J.losn,
cutting oif half the horizon as with a more than gi-
gantic screen, will adnv't that its beairties are almost
unique in the Alps. Mr. 'Wills did justice to them
long ago ; but, in spite of all that caq^' said, the
tourist stream flows in its old channels aim* leaves on
ejthcr side regions of enchanting beantyf but almost as
little visited as tins remote valleys of Norway. I re-
member a striking scene near Griiben, in th(' Turtman
Thai, which curiously exemplified this fact. We were
in a little glade surroiuided by pine forest, and with
the Alpine rose clustering in full bloom romid the
scattered hbnlders. Above us roso the Wcisshoni in
one of the most sublime as^iects of that inmost faultless
mountain. The Turtman glacier, broad and white
with deep regular crevasses, formed a noble approtu'h,
liko the staircase of some svpei'b palace. Above this
rose the huge mass of the mountain, firm and solid as

TITS ROTHHOHN

91

though its architect had wislied toeelipaetho Pyramids.
And, higher still, its lofty crest, .lagged and apparently
swaying from sido to side, seemed to he tossed into the
l)hio atmosphere far above the reach of mortal man.
Nowhere have I seen a more delicate combination of
nn)untam massiveness, with soaring and delicat^'ly
carved pinnacles pushed to the verge ^of extravagance.
y(‘t f<‘W peoido know this sido of a peak, which e^e^y
one has admired from the lliffel. The only persons
who shared our vii'w, though they could hardly share
our wonder, were a little gi’oup of jioahimts standing
round a small chalet. A herd of cows had been
collected, and n priest in tattered garments was sprink-
ling them with holy water. Shey received ns much as
w<‘ might have* bee'ii received in die least frecjuenled of
Enropean^jiitricts, and it was bard to rem(*mber that
wo were a short walk of the main post route

and "Mr. (’ooVs tourists. Wo seemed to have stepped
into the Middle Ages, though 1 fancied that some shade
of annoyance showed jtself on the faces of the party,
as of men surprised in a rather superstitious observance.
Perhaps they had a dim imiiression that wt* miglit bo
smiling in our sleeves, and knew that beyond their
mountain wall were sometimes to be •Seen d.iring
sceptics, who ^loiibted the efficacy of holy water as a
remedy for rinderpest. Wo of eourse expressed no
opinion upon the, subject, and passed on with a friendly
greeting, reflecting how*a trifling inequality in the
('ai'th’s surface may be the moans of preserving the

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

d2

relics of extinct modes of thought. But, for that
matter, a London lane or an old college wall may be as
effectual a prophylactic : even a properly cut coat is
powerful in repelling conhigion.

Leaving such meditations, T may remark that Swiss
enti'rprise has begun to penetrate these retired valleys.
It is a mystery, ^ f difficult solution, how the spiders
wliich live in certain retired and, as we would think,
flylesB corners of ancient libraries, presj'rve tlieiv exist-
ence ; but it is still harder to discover how innkeepers
in these rarely trodden valleys derive sufficient supplies
from the mere waifs and strays that arc thrown, *as it
were, from the main body of tourists. However that
may be, a certain M. Epinay maintains a hospitable
inn at Zinal, which ^as since been much enlarged ;
and the arrival of Cirovc, ^Macdonald, myself,
with our guides klelchior and Jacob Anderegg, in
August 1861, rather more than doubled the resident
population. M. Kpinay’s inn. I may remark, is worthy
of the highest praise. It is trup that the accommoda-
tion was tlien limited. Macdonald and Grove had to
«

sleep in two cupboai'ds opening out of the coffee-room,
whilst I occupied a bed, which was the most conspicuous
object of fui^iturc in the coffee-room itself. The only
complaint I could hnd with it was that ivhenever I sat
up suddenly I brought my head into violent contact
with the ceiling. This ^leculiarity was owing to a
fourth bed, which generally lurked beneath the legs of
my rather lofty couch, but could be drawn out on due

THE liOTHHOBN

98

occasion. The merits of the establishment in other
respects were manifold. Aliove all, M. Epinay is an
excellent cook, and provided ns daily with dinners
which 1 almost shrink from sayinj? it —were decidedly
superior to those of my excellent friend M. Seiler, at
Zermatt. Inns, however, change almost as rapidly.as
dynasties, and I do not extend tlies^ remarks to the
present day. Finally, the room boasted of one of the
few decent sofas in Switzerland. It is trne that it was
only four feet long, and terminated by two lofty
barriers ; but it was soft, and had eushions- an luipn'-
cedeiited luxury, so far as my alpine knowledge extends.
The minute criticism of M. Fpinay's establishment
is due to the fact that we spent there three da} s of
enforced idleness. ^

Nothintt^ moi'u delightful than line weather in the
Alps ; buf,S>s ) general rule, the next thing to it is
bad weather yi the Alps. There is scarcely a day jn
summer when a man in orduiary health need be con-
iined to the house ; aiyl even in the dreariest state of
the atmosphere, when the view isjimited to a few
yards by driving mists on some lofty pasturage, there
are mfiuite beauties of detail to bo discovered by
persons of humble minds. Indt*ed, on looking back to
days spent iiythe luoun tains, I sometnues think that
the most enjoyable have been, not those of unbroken
sunshine, but those on whiclf one was forcibly confined
to admiring some little >'lgnette of scenery strangely
transfigured by the background of changing cloud.

94

THE PLAYaUOUND OF KUHOFE

The huge bouldor under \(hich yon take refuge, the
angry glacier torrent daebing out of obscurity and dis-
appearing in a few yards, and the cliff whoso suniniit
,and base are equally conooal(‘d by the clouds, gain
wonderfully in dignity and mystery. Yet I must
coufess that when one is suffering from an acute attack
of the climbing ^ever, and panting for an opportunity
which will not come, the i)atiencc is tried for the mo-
ment, even though striking fragnu'nts of scenery miiy
be accumulating in the memory.

A persistent screen of stormy cloud drove up the
valley, and clung stubbornly to the higlicr peaks* We
lounged lazily in the wooden gallery, snudiing our
pipes and coutemplatiag the principal street of the
village. Once, as 1 j.at there peacefully, a little pack
of mountain stoats dashed in full cry aerg^the village^
street; the object of chase was invis^loT^ne might
ettsily fancy that some quaint mounlain^oblin was the
master of the hounds : if so, lie did not rev(>al himself
to the unworthy eyes of one of those tourists who are
frightening him and his like from their uatiNe haunts.
Once or twice an alarm of natives was raised ; and we
argued long whether they were inhabitautb, or merely
visitors froih the neighbouring Alps comis to se<> life in
Ziual. 1 incline to the latter liypotlg sis, bidng led
thereto from a consideration of the following circum-
stance : — One of our dei^ierate efforts at amusement
was jilaying cricket in the high street, with a rail for a
bat, and a small granite boulder for a ball. My lirst

THE UOTHHOltN

9S

perfoimance was a brilliant hit to log (tho only one 1
over made in my life) off Macdonald's bowling. To
my horror 1 sent the ball clean through the wesiorn
window of the chapel, which looks upon the giaiuh
place of tin* village — the scone of our matcli. As no
one ever could be found to receive damages, I doabt
much whether there are any permtu^nt inhabitants.
Tired of ciickct, 1 learnt the visitors’ book by heart ; 1
studied earnestly the remarks of a deaf and dumb
gentleman, who, for some mysterious reason, has
selected this book as the chief nu>dinm of commuui-
catioh with the outer world. I made, I fear, rather
ill-temiK'i'od annolations on some of my ])j*edccesbor8’
remai'kh. 1 even turn<*d a ta^le of ludglits expressed
in metres into feet, and have; thereby contributed
richly to tWhuid of amusement provided forscientilic
visitors wIilS may have a taste for correcting arithmeti-
cal blunders.# On Sunday the weather was improving,
and after breakfast we lounged up the Diablons — an
ejisy walk, if takim fropi the right direction. The view
met with our decided disapproval -i)ryicipallA , perhaps,
because we did not sec it, and partly because we had
taken no proxisions; a thunderstorm drenched us
during our descent, and I began to think'the weather
hoiHjless. 'J'lie same evening, as 1 was reclining on
the sofa, in the grac«‘ful attitude of a Y, whose ex-
tremities W'erc represented % my head and feet, and
whose apex was pluugdll m the before -mentioned
eusliious, the sanguine Macdonald said that the

96

THE PLAYOBOUND OF EUEOPE

weather was clearing up. My reply was expressive of
that utter disbelief with wliich a passenger in a
Channel steamboat resents the steward’s assurance that
Calais is in sight. Next moruiug, liowever, at 1.50
.V.M., 1 found myself actually crossing tlio meadows
which form the upi^er level of the Zinal valley. It
was a cloudlesa night, except that a slight haze ob-
scured the distant Oberland ridges. But for the dis-
heartening influence of a prolonged sojourn in Zinal,
I might have been sanguine. As it was, I walked in
that temper of gloomy disgust which I find to be a
frequent coneoniitant of early vising. Ajiothei'^ acci-
dent soon happened to damp our spirits Macdonald
was forced to give in toa sharp attack of ilhu‘ss, which
totally incapacitated him for a diihcnlt expedition.
Wo parted with him with great regret, and* proceeded
gloomily on our way. Poor Macdonald spent the djiy
djsmally enough, I fear, in the little inp, in the com-
pany of M. Bpiiiay and certain (lerman tourists.

We followed the usual traqjc for the Trift pass as
&r as the top of the great icefall of the Durand glacier.
Here we turned sharply to the left, and crossed the
wilderness of decaying rock at the foot of Lo Besso.
It is a stradgely wild scene. The buttress-like mass
of Lo Besso cut off om* view of the Ipwor country.
Our path led across a mass of huge loose rocks, which
1 can only compare to continuous • series of th%
singular monuments knowu*a8 rocking-stones. For a
second or two you balanced yourself on a mass as big

THE SOTHHOBN

07

«

as a cottage, and balanced not only yourself but the
mass on which you stood. As it canted slowly over,
you made a convulsive springs and lighted upon
another rock in an eiiually unstable position. If you
wore lucky you recovered yourself by a sudden jerk,
and prepared for the next leap. If unlucky, yea
landed with your kn§es, nose, and othc|r parts of your
person in contact with various lumps of rock, and rose
into an erect posture by another series of gynmastic
contortions. In fact, my attitudes, at least, were as
unlike as possible to that of Mercury —

Now lighted on a hesMThn-kissing hill.

They were more like Mercury shot out of a cart on to
a heap of rubbish. An hour or so Qf this work brought
us to a smooth patch of rocks, from which we obtained
our first vidfT of j;he Bothhorn, hitherto shut out by a
secondary spui^of the Besso. And here, at 5.60 a.h.^
we halted for breakfast. * How beautiful those clouds
are ! ' was Grove’s cnthiyjiastic remark as we sat down
to our frozen meal. The rest of the p^ty gave a very
qualified response to his admiration of a phenomenon
beautiful in itself, but ominous of bad weather. For
my part, I never profess to bo in a good tein^per at six
o’clock in the n^prning. Christian morality appears to
me to become binding every morning at breakfast-time,
that is, about 9.80 a.m. Macfionald’s departure had
annoyed me. A more selfish dislike to the stones oyer
which we had been stumbling had put me out still

H

98

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUBjOPE

foithor. Bat the bitterest drop in my cup was the state
of the weather. The sky overhead, indeed, was still
cloudless ; but just before the Besso eclipsed the Ober-
land ridges, an offensive mist had bloated out their ser-
rated outline. 1 did not like the way in which the stars
winked at us just before their disappearance in the
sunlight. But(,worst of all was a heavy mass of cloud
which clung to the ridge between the Dent Blanche
and the Gahelhorn, and seemed to bo crossing the Col
de ZinaJ, under the influence of a strong south wind.
The clouds, to which Grove unfeelingly alluded, were
a detachment, rising like steam from a cauldron above
this lower mass. They seemed to gather to leeward of
the vast cliffs of the Dent Blanche, and streamed out
from their shelter jnto the current of the gale which
evidently raged above our heads. At this pioment they
were tinged with every shade of colour that an alpine
eunrise can supply. I have board such (jjiouds described
as * mashed rainbow ; ’ and whatever the nature of the
culinary process, their glorious beauty is undeniable.
But for the tin^e the ambition of climbing the Both-
hom had quenched all eesthetic influences, and a sulky
growl was the only homage I could pay them.

Yet one more vexatious element was hero intruded
into our lot. We were in full view the Bothhorn,
to which we had previously given a careful examina-
tion from the foot of the Trift-Joch. As this is the
most favourable moment far explaining our geography,
I will observe that we were now within the hollow

THE ROTHHOEN

99

embraced by the spur which termioates in the great
promontory of Lo Besso. This spur has its origin in the
main ridge whicl^runs from thcAothhorn towards the
Weisshorn, the point of articulation being immediately
under the final cliffs of the Bothhorn. It divides the
Morning glacier from the upper snows of the Duraitd
glacier. The mighty ‘ cirque ’ inclosed by the moun-
tain wall — studded in succession by the peaks of the
Besso, the Bothhom, the (labelhomer, the Bent
Blanche, and the Grand Cornier — is one of the very
noblest in the Alps. From the point we had now
reachdd it appeared to form a complete amphitheatre,
the narrow gorge through which the Durand glacier
(‘merges into the Einfischthal* being invisible. Our
plan of operations was to climb the spur (of which I
have already spoken) about half-way between Lo
Besso and the Bothhorn, and thence to follow it up to
the top of the •mountain. The difficulty, as we had
early foreseen, would begin just after the place where
the spur blended with the northern ridge of the Both-
honi. We had already examined with our telescopes
the narrow and broken arete which led upwards from
this point to the summit. Its scarped and pe^udicular
sides, and the rocky teeth which struck up from its
back, were sufficiently threatening. Melchior had,
notwithstanding, spoken with unusual confidence of
our chance. But at this moment the weakest point
in his character developed*itself. He began to take
a gloomy view of his prospects, and to confide his

VH) THE PLAYdltOUND OF EUROPE

opinion to Jacob Anderegg in what he fondly ima*
gined to be unintelligible patois. 1 understood him
only too well. ‘ Jacbb,’ he said, ‘ we shall got up to

tliat rock, and then ’ an ominous shake of the

head supplied the remainder of the seuteiice. It was
therefore in sulky silence that, after half an hour’s
halt, I crossed Cthe snow-field, reached the top of the
spur at 7.55 a.m., and thence ascended the arete to
within a short distance of the anticipated difficulty.
Our progress was tolerably ra2)id, being only delayed
by the necessity of cutting some half-dozen ste})s.
We were at a groat height, and the eye j^lungod into
the Zinal valley on one side, and to the little inn upon
the Bifiel on the othir, whilst on looking round it
commanded the glapicr basin from which we had just
ascended. Close beneath us, to the north, was the
col by which Messrs. Moore and W^hymperliad passed
from the Morning to the Bchallcnberg glacier. It was
now 9 A.M. We cowertd mider the rocky parapet
which here strikes up through the snow like a fin from
a fish’s back, apd guarded us from the assaults of a
fierce southern gale. All along the arete to this point
I had distinctly felt a keen icy blast penetrate my
coat as though it had been made of gossamer, pierce
my skin, whistle merrily through ribs, and, after
chilling the internal organs, pass out at the other side
with unabated vigour. *My hands were numb, my nose
was doubtless pmrple, and hay t^eth played involuntary
airs, like the bones of a negro minstrel. Grove seemed

THE BOTHHOBN

101

•

to me to bo more cheerful than circumstaucce justified.
By way, therefore, of rcduciug his spirits nearer to
freezing-point — or let me hope, fn the more laudable
desire of breaking his too probable disappointment — I
invented for his benefit a depressing prophecy supposed
to have been just utten'd by Melchior ; and, if faces
can speak without words, my gloomylprediction was
not entirely without justification.

We were on a lodge of snow which formed a kind
of lean-to against the highest crest of precipitous rock.
A little further on the arete miule a slight elbow,
l)eyonfi which we could sec nothing. If the snowy
shelf continued beyond the elbow, all might yet be
well. If not, we should have t« trust ourselves to the
tender mercies of the seamed and^distorted rocks. A
very few paacs settled the question. The snow 1 binned
out. Wo thrne4 to examine the singular ridge along
which the oiilyipracticable path must lie. From its for^
mation it was impossible to see more than a very short
way ahead. So steep wpre the precipices on each side
that to our imaginations it had all the effect of a thin
wall, bonding in its gradual decay first towards one
and then towards tlie other valley. The steep faces
of rock thus appeared to overhang the Scliallenbcrg
and Zinal glaciprs alternately. The same process of
decay had gradually carved the parapet which sur-
mouiitod it into fantastic pinftacles, and occasionally
scored deep channels in its Sides. It was covered with
the rocky fragments rent off by the frost, and now

102

THE PLAYGROUND OF itUBOPE

lying in treacherous repose, firequently masked by
cushions of fresh-fallen snow. The cliffs were, at
times, as smooth as if they had been literally cat out
by the sweep of a gigantic knife. But the smooth
faces were separated by deep gullies, down which the
axtillery of falling stones was evidently accustomed to
play. I fear t^at I can very imperfectly describe the
incidents of our assault upon this formidable fortress.
Melchior led us with unfaltering skill— his spirits, as
usual, rising in proportion to the difficulty when the
die had once been cast. Three principal pinnacles rose
in front of us, each of which it was necessary te turn
or to surmount. The first of these was steepest upon
the Zinal side. Two deep gullies on the Zermatt side
started from points ^n the ridge immediately in front
and in rear of the obstacle, and converged«at some dis-
tance beneath. The pinnacle itself yras thus shaped
Uke a tooth inotruding from a jaw an(l cxx>osed down
to the sockets, and the two gullies afforded means for
ciroumventing it. Wo carefi^ly descended by one of
these for some distance, considerably inconvenienced
by the enow which lodged in the deeply-cut channels,
and concealed the loose stones. With every care it
was imposkible not occasionally to start crumbling
masses of rock. The most ticklish pa/t of the opera-
tion was in crossing to the other gully ; a sheet of hard
ice some two or three iifchcs thick covered the steeply-
inclined slabs. It was iifipossible to cut steps in it
deep enough to afford secure foothold. The few knobs

±IIE BOTBHOSN

108

•

of projecting stone seemed all to be tooJoose either for
hand or foot. Wo crept along in as gingerly a fashion
as might be, endeavouring to distribute our weight
over the maximum number of insecure supports until
one of the party had got sounder footing. A severe
piece of chimneysweep practice then l^ded us oi)pe
moi‘0 upon the razor edge of the arete, jflic second pin-
nacle demanded different tactics. On the Zermatt
side it was impraciically steep, whilst on the other it*
fell away in one of the smooth sheets of rock already
mentioned. The rock, however, was here seamed by
deep fissures approximately horizontal. It was possible
to insert toes or fingers into these, so as to present to
t<‘lescopio vision (if anyone had been watching our
ascent) mud) the appeanmcc of a fly on a ptuie of glass.
Or, to mak^ another coinpaiison, our method of pro-
gression \ftis u(jt unlike that of the caterpillars, who
may be obscryed first doubled up into a loop and them
stretched out at Ml length. When two crevices ap-
proximated, we should be in danger of treading on our
own fingers, and the next moment we should be ex-
tended as though on the rack, clutching one crack
with the last joints of our fingers, and feeling for
another with the extreme points of our tofls. The hold
was generally^firm when the fissures were not filled
with ice, and wo gradually succeeded in outflanking the
second hostile i>08ition. The third, which now rose
within a few yards, was of for more threatening appear-
ance than its predecessors. After a brief inspection.

104 ms PLAYQBOUND OP BUBOPE

c

we advanced along the ridge to its base. In doing
so we had to perform a manoeuvre which, though not
very difficult, I never remember to have previously
tried. One of the plates to BcrlepscA’s description of
the Alps represents a mountain-top, with the national
flag of Switztfland waving from the summit and a
group of enthu^stic mountaineers swarming round it.
One of them approaches, astride of a sharp ridge, with
one leg hanging over each precipice. Our position
was similar, except that the ridge by which we ap-
proached consisted of rock instead of snow. The
•attitude adopted had the merit of safety, bul^was
deficient in comfort. The rock was so smooth and its
edge so sharp, that asi- 1 crept along it, supported
entirely on my hands, I was in momentary fear that a
slip might send one-half of me to the Duri^d and the
other to the Bchallonberg glacier. It, was,*’ however,
posing to find a genuine example of thp ardte in its
normal state — so often described in books, and so
seldom found in real life. Wo landed on a small plat-
form at the other end of our razor of Al Sirat, hoping
for the paradise of a new mountain summit as our
reward ; but as we looked upwards at the last of the
three pinnacles, 1 felt doubtful of the result.

The rock above us was, if I am not,mistakon, the
one which, by its sharp inclination to the east, gives
to the Bothhorn, from sbme points of view, the ap-
pearance of actually curling over in that direction,
like the crest of a sea-wave on the point of breaking.

THE BOTHHOEN

To creep along the eastern face was totally impossible.
The western slopes, thongh not equally steep, were
still frightfully 4>rccipitons, and*prcsentcd scarcely a
ledge whereby to cling to their slippery surface. In
front of us the rocks rose steeply in aJxery narrow
crest, rounded and smooth at the top, am with all foOt-
hold, if foothold there were, completely concealed by a
layer of fresh snow. After a glance at this somewhat
unpromising path, Melchior examined for a moment’
the western cliff. Th(' difficulties there seeming even
greater, he immediately proceeded to the direct assault.
In a fdw minutes 1 was scrambling desperately upwards,
utterly insensible to the i)romptings of the self-esteem
which would generally induce fhe to refuse assistance
and to preserve a workmanlike attitude. So steeply
did the precipice sink on our left hand, that along the
whole of iliis part of the shelf the glacier, at a vast
distance belowt formed the immediate background to a
sloping rocky ledge, some foot or two in width, and
covered by slippery snow. In a few paces I found my-
self fumbling vaguely with my fingers at imaginary
excrescences, my feet resting upon rotten projections
of crumbling stone, whilst a large pointed ^b of rock
pressed against my stomach, and threatened to force
my centre of gravity backwards beyond the point of
support. My chief reliance was upon the rope ; and
with a graceful flounder I was presently landed in
safety upon a comparativ^y sound ledge. Looking
backwards, I was gratified by a picture which has since

THE PLAYGSOVND OF EUHOPE

lf)6

remained fixed in my imagination. Some feet down
the eteep ridge was Grove, in one of thoFe picturesque
attitudes which a man involuntarily adopts when the
various points to which he trusts his weight have been
distributed '«^thont the least regard to the exigencies
o^the humai^gnre, when they are of a slippery and
crumbling nature, and when the violent downward
strain of the rope behind him is only just counter-
balanced by the upward strain of the rope in front.
Below Grove appeared the head, shoulders, and arms
of Jacob. His fingers wore exploring the rock in
search of infinitesimal crannies, and his face preiented
the expression of modified good humour, which in him
supplies tlie place of extreme discontent in other
guides. Jacob’s head and shoulders were relieved
against the snows of the Schallcnberg glacier many
htmdred feet below. Our view of conHuuousrock^^as
thus limited to a few yards (d narrow irdgo, tilted up
at a steep angle appiirently in mid air ; and Jacob
resembled a man in the act of clambering into a bal-
loon far above the earth. I had but little time for con-
templation before turning again to our fierce strife
with the various impediments to our march. Suddenly
Melchior, who had left the highest ridge to follow a
shelf of rock on the right, turned te me with the
words, ‘ In half an hour wo shall be on the top.’ My
first impulse was to express an utter scepticism. My
perturbed imagination wai unable to realise the fact
that we should ever get off the ardto any more. We

THE BOTHHOBN

107

seemed to be condemned to a fate which Dante might
have reserved for faithless guides — ^to be everlastingly
climbing a hopeless arete, in a hi^ wind, and'never get-
ting any nearer the summit. Turning an angle of the
rock, I saw that Melchior had spoken tli^uth, and for
the first time that day it occurred to me ^wt life was not
altogether a mistake. We had reache<ftho top of what
I have called the third phmaele, and with it our diffi-
culties were over. In the words of the poet, modified
to the necessary extent —

He that with toil of heart and knees and hands
•Up the long lidge to the far height hath won
His path upwardh, and prevailed,

Shall find the toppling crags of the liothhorn <«caled

•

are close to what, by a somewhat forced metaphor, we
may call ‘ a^hining tableland.’ It is not a particularly
level nor ^ ver^ extensive tableland; but, compared
with the ridges up wliich we had been forcing o^r
precarious way, it was luxurious in the extreme.
’Twas not so wide as Piccadilly nor so level as tbe
Bedford river, but ’twould serve ; I might almost add,
if the metaphor were not somew'hat strauied, that it
made * worm’s meat ’ of the Rothhorn. At any rate it
was sound under foot, and broad enough for practical
purposes ; an^ within less Uian Melchior’s half-hour,
viz. 11.15 A.M., wo reached — I had almost said the
top; but the llothliorn hu^no top. It has a place
where a top manifestly ought to have been, but the
work had been left unfinished. It ended in a flat

108 TBE PLATQBOUND OF EUROPE

circnlar area a few feet broads as though it had been
a perfect cone, with the apex cleanly struck off.
Melchior l^nd Jacob sbt to work at onc^ to remedy this
deficiency e| nature, whilst Grove and 1 cowered down
in a little holWut out of the last rocks, which sheltered
ue'from the blater wind. Here, in good temper with
each other and^ our guides, and everything but Mac-
donald’s absence, wo sat down for some twenty minutes,
with muscles still quivering from the strain.

No doubt some enthusiast will ask me about the
view. I have several times been asked what the
Matterhorn looked like ; and I wish I could give an
answer. But I will make a clean breast of it, and
confess that 1 only remember two things : one, that
we saw the Biffolberg, looking like a flat green carpet ;
the other, that the gigantic mass of the«Weisshorn
seemed to frown right above our headp, and shut out
a Jarge seggnent from the view Been fro^i this point it
is more massive and of h-ss elegant shape than from
most others. It looked like an enormous bastion, with
an angle turned ^wards us. Whether I was absorbed
in the worship of this noblest of alpine peaks, or
whether the clouds had concealed much of the rest
of the panorama, or whether wo were thinking
too much of the ascent that was past and the
descent that was to come, or whether, as I rather
believe, the view is really an inferior one, certain it
is that 1 thought very little *of it. * And what phiio-
sophical observations did you make?’ will be the

THE BOTHEOBN

109

inquiry of one of those fanatics who, by a reasoning
process to me utterly inscrutable, have somehow irre-
vocably associatjfd alpine trarelttng with sc^cc. To
them 1 answer, that the temperature approxi-
mately (1 had no thermometer) 212‘’^'abrenheit)
below freezing-point. As for ozone, if axm existed in the
atmosphere, it was a greater fool than I take it for.
As we had, unluckily, no barometer, I am unable to
give the usual information as to the extent of our
deviation from the correct altitude ; but the Federal
map fixes the height at 13,855 feet. Twenty minutes
of freezing satisfied me with the prospect, and I
willingly turned to the descent. I will not trouble my
readers with a repetition in inverse order of the de-
scription of our previous adventures. I will not tell
at length l]pw I was sometimes half-suspended like a
bundle of*good|i by the rope ; how I was sometimes
curled up in|o a ball, and sometimes strefched over
eight or nine feet of rock ; how the rope got twisted
round my legs and arms and body, into knots which
would have puzzled the Davenport Brothers ; how, at
one point, 1 conceived myself to bo resting entirely on
the point of one toe upon a stone coated with ice and
fixed very loosely in the face of a trembndous cliff,
whilst Melchiy absurdly told me I was ‘ganz sicher,’
and encouraged me to jump i how Jacob seemed per-
fectly at his ease ; how Gf ove managed to lend a
whenever I wanted one; and how Melchior,
rising into absurdly high spirits, pirouetted and capered

110 THE PLAYOBOUND OF EUSOPE

and struck attitudes on the worst places, and, in short,
indulged himself in a display of fancy mountaineering
as a parti^ relief to fiis spirits. We reached the snow
safely at I45 f.m., and looked back triumphantly at
the nastiest^cce of climbing I had ever accomplished.
The next tra^ller who makes the ascent will probably
charge me with exaggeration. It is, 1 know, very
difficult to avoid giving just cause for that charge. I
must therefore apologise beforeliand, and only beg my
anticipated critic to remember two things : one, that
on the first ascent a mountain, in obedience to some
mysterious law, always is more difficult than aib any
succeeding ascmit ; secondly, that nothing can be less
like a mountain at one time than the same mountain at
another. The fresli snow and the bitter gale told
heavily in the scale against us. Some of ^he hardest
ascents 1 remember have been up places e&sy in fine
weather, hut rendered difficult by accidental circum-
stances. Making allowance, however, for this, I still
believe that the last rocks of theBothhom will always
count among tbe^ decidedly mauvaia pa$ of the Alps.

We ran rapidly down the snow without much
adventure, except that I selected the steepest part of
the snow arete to execute what, but for the rope,
would have been a complete somersault — an in-
voluntary but appropriate performance. Leaving the
stony base of the Besso w^ll to our right, we struck the
route from the Trift-Joch dt the point where a little
patch of verdure behind a moraine generally serves for

THE ROTHHOBN

111

a halting and feeding-place. Here vre stretched onr-
selves laxnrionsly on the soft green moss in the after-
noon sun. We emptied the last drops of|tho wine
bag, lighted the^ pipe of peace — the first uat day—
and enjoyed the well-earned climbers’ revfnrd. Some
mountaineers do not smoke— such is /he darkness
which lurks amidst onr boasted ci/ilisation. To
them the words 1 have just read convoy no sympa-
thetic thrill. With the ignorance of those who liave
never shared a blessing, they probably affect oven to
despise the pleasure it confers. I can, at any rate, say
that { have seldom known a happier half-hour than
that in which I basked on the mossy turf in the shadow
of the compierod liothliorn — a^ my internal sensations
of present comfort, of hard- won victory, and of lovely
scenery, delicately harmonised iSy the hallowing in-
fluence oUobacco. We enjoyed what the lotos-eaters
would have enjoyed, had they been making «an ascent
of one of the ‘ silent pinnacles of aged snow,’ instead
of Buffering from sea-sickness, and partaldng of a less
injurious stimulant than lotos. Melchior pointed out
during our stay eleven different ways* of ascending the
hitherto uncomiuered Grand Cornier. Grove and
Jacob speculated on adding its summit «al80 to our
trophies, whilst I observed, not without secret satis-
faction, that tile gathering clouds would enforce at
least a day’s rest. We started homewrards with a
relfictant effort. T diversified the descent by an act
of gallantry on my owm account. Melchior had just

112 TBE PLAYOSOVND OF EUROPE
c

skipped over a crevasse and tamed to hold out a hand.
With a oontemptaous wave of my own I pat his offer
aside, reu^arking something about people who had done
the Bcthl^rn. Next moment I was, it was true, on
the other ^e of the crevasse, but, I regret to say, flat
on my back, ^nd gliding rapidly downwards into its
depths. Melchior ignominiously hooked me under the
arm with his axe and jerked me back, with a suitable
warning for the future. We soon left the glacier, and
on descending the path towards Zinal were exposed to
the last danger of the day. Certain natives had sprung
apparently from the bowels of the earth, and leaded
us with a strange dialect, composed in equal propor*
tions of French, German, and Italian patois. Not
understanding their remarks, I ran onwards, when a
big stone whizzed close past my head. My first im-
pression was tliat I was about to be converted into the
victim o£ another Zinal murder, the gentleman by
whom the last was committed being, as it was reported,
still wandering amongst the mountains. 1 looked up,
and saw that the offender was one of a large herd of
cows, which wete browsing in the charge of the
natives, and managed, by kicking down loose stones,
to keep up > a lively fire along some distance of our
path. We ran on all the foster, reached the meadows,
and ascended the path to the village. Just as we
reached the first houses, a melancholy figure advanced
to meet ns. Friradly greetings, however, procee;led
from its lips, and we were soon shaking hands with

THE BOTHEOSN

118

poor Macdonald.' We reached M. Epinay’s inn at
6.45 p.ai., the whole expedition oec^^pying 16 h. 50 m.
including about two hours’ halts.* A ploasa^ dinner
succeeded, notwithstanding the clatter y sundry
German tourists, who had flooded the littlo^ffoe-room
and occupied my beloved sofa, and who kent up a ceas^
less conversation. Soon afterwards, Macdonald having
generously abandoned tome the cupboard in which be
slept, I W'as trying to solve the problem of placing a
length of six feet on a bed measuring about 3 ft. 6 in.
by 2 ft. As its solution appeared to mo to ho inex-
tricablj( mixed up with some question about the
highest rocks of the liolhhoni, and as I heard no
symx>tomH of my neighbour’s q)nmbers in the next
cupboard, which was divided from mine by a sort of
paper partition, I incline to think that I was not long
awake.

TBE PLATOBOUND OF EUBOPE

M*

CHAPTER V

THB EIOEB-JOCn

On August 8, 1869, I \vas travelling on the Swiss
railway, between Basle and Olten, with my friends
Messrs. William and George Mathews. ^As we
shot out of the long tunnel above Olten, and de-
scended into the ^lley of the Aar, the glorious
range of the Bernese Oberland rose majestically into
sight, some hfty miles away. While telling over the
names of our gigantic friends, our eyci ^were cauglit
by the4)road flat top of the Monch,^vhich no English-
man had yet reached. It occurred to us that an
attack upon this hoary pillar of the mid-aerial church
would be a worthy commencement of our expedition,
and it etrnck*us at the same time that by ascending,
as a first step, the ridge called by Mr. Bunbury * the
Col de la Jungfrau, which connects the Mdnch with
the Jungfrau, we should, so to speak, be killing two
birds with one stone. A problem dhioh at that time
offered itself to Alpine Caveliers, was to discover a direct
route from the waters o^the Lutsohine to thoE^of the

* In the firtft series of Peakst PoMcat and Qlackra.

THE EIGEB^JOCH

m

j^oae. A glance at the map show five possible
routes between the Finsteraarhoin and the Gletscher-
horn, corresponding tofivcdeprenions in the main ridge
of the Oberlana. The most direct and ob^nous route
is across the gap between the MOnch and the 3 ungfrau.
This is obtrusively, and almost offensively, a genu^e ,
pass. Unlike some passes, falsely so called, whose
summit levels are either huge plains, like the Theodule,
or, still worse, tops of mountains, like one or two
that might be mentioned, the Jungfrau- Joch presents
a well-defined depression between the two highest
mountains in the district. Moreover, the summit of the
pass and the two ends of the journey lie in a straight
line, from which no part of ^e route deviates con-
siderably. In fact, were it not for the mountains, the
line of the ^lass would be the most dhect route from
the Wengem Alp to the .iilggisehhoru. It shows
itself, therefore, as the very normal typemf a pa^s
to the whole middle land of Switzerland. And but for
a certain affectation of inaccessibility, it must long ago
have been adopted as one of the main Alpine routes.
There are, however, several altemalives which may
be adopted in order to turn its obvious difficulties. To
the east of the Monch lie three passes; ieach with
its characteristic peculiarities. The most obvious
route is that t)etween the Monch and the Yiescher-
hom : it was first made in historic times by Messrs.
Uuison and Birkbeck, in«1868 ; but the legend goes
that it was used two or three centuries back, when

116 THE FLAYGEOUNH OF EUSOPE

•

ceitain Vftlaisan ProtestantB were in the habit of
crossing the range ta attend the services of their feUow>
believers kit Grindelwald. Beligions^eal must have
been greater, or the glaciers materially less, than at
present. The same point, again, may be reached by
climbing the ridge between the Monch and the Eiger,
from the summit of which, as will presently appear,
the col may be easily reached. By keeping still further
to the east, the ridge connecting the Vicscherhom
with the Finsteraarhom may again be crossed, and
a descent effected u^ran the higher snows of the
Viescher glacier. And, finally, it is possible toi cross
the chain to the west of the Jungfrau. This was first
accomplished by Messrs. Hawkins and Tyndall, in
1860 ; and in 1864 l^had the good fortune, in company
with Messrs. Grove and Macdonald, to find an easier
route over the same depression, wUcb brought us
close to*the shoulder of the Jungfira^. We were
singularly lucky in the weather, and had the satis-
faction of reaching the JElggischhorn in eig^iteen hours
from Lauterbrunnen, ascending the Jungfrau en route.
This is one of the v«‘ry noblest expeditions in the
Alps.

Till 18S9, however, none of these passages had
been made, with the single exception ^of the Monch-
Joch. Accordingly, on August 7, we assembled, with
an eager desire to attetnpt the new passage, at the
lower of the two little inns*on the ever-glorious Wen-
gem Alp.

THE EIQBB.JOCH

IV

The Mathews were accompanied by two Chamonix
men, Jean-Baptiste Croz and Ch|^et, whilst I had se*
cured the gigantic Ulrich Lauener, the most pictu*
resque of guides. Tall, spare, blue-eyed, l/ng-limbed
and square-shouldered, with a jovial laugh and a not
ungraceful swagger, he is the very model of a tTfle**
mountaineer ; and, except that his rule is apt to be
rather autocratic, I would not wish for a pleasanter
companion. He has, however, certain views as to the
superiority of the Teutonic over the Latin races, which
rather interfered with the harmony of the party at a
later l)eriod. Meanwhile, we examined the work before
us more closely. The Monch is connected, by two snow-
ridges, with the Jungfrau on the west and the Eiger
on the east. From the first of these ridges descends
the Guggi glacier, and from the second the Eiger
glacier, bdth of tthem pouring their torrents into the
gloomy Trdmleten valley, the trench whiefi also re-
ceives the snow avalanches of the Jungfrau. These
two glaciers are separated by the huge northern
buttress of the Mbnoh, which, I believe, is generally
supposed by tourists to be perpendicular; but the
long slopes of debris by which it is faced prove
the fallacy of this idea to an experienced eye, and
it is, in foct, easy to ascend. Both glaciers are much
crevassed ; the Guggi, however, expands into a kind
of level plateau, about halfway up the mountain,
corifiected by long and bfoken snow-slopes with tho
Jungfrau- Joch.

118

TBE PLAYOBOUND OF EUROPE

The morning of the 6th having been gloomy, we
spent the later pa\of the day in a reconnoitring
ezpedition^up to this plateau and a Ifttle beyond it.
The result of our observations was not encouraging.
We mounted some way above the plateau on a great
heap of debris that had been disgorged by a glacier
above. The blue crevasses which were drawn across
the protruding nose of ice showed that at any minute
we might be surprised by the descent of new masses,
which would convert us into debris ourselves. Even
if we surmounted this danger in the early morning,
the steep slopes of nev^ above us, which occasionally
bulged out into huge overhanging masses, looked far
from promising. Be^cating to the buttress of the
Monch, we turned dOr attention to the Eiger glacier.
Though some difficulties were obviously to be en-
countered its aspect was generally more auspicious,
wd we accordingly resolved to modifyour plans by
ascending the eastern instead of the western shoulder
of the Monch. We hoped afterwards to attack the
Monch, but in 'any case meant to descend to the
Aletsch glacier on the other side.

An additional result of our expedition had been to
develop a more decided rivalry between Lauener and
the Chamonix men. We had already had one or
two little races and dis|)utations in consequence, and
Lauener was disposed to take a disparaging view of the
merits of these foreign competitors on his own pcci^iar
ground. As, however, he could not speak a word of

THE EIGEB.JOCH

119

French, nor they of German, he wan obliged to convey
this sentiment in pantomime, wUch perhaps did not
soften its vigdHr. I was accormngly prepared for a
few disputes the next day — an annoyance which occa-
sionally attends a combination of Swiss and Chamonix
guides.

About four on the morning of August 7, we got off
from the inn on the Wongern Alp, notwithstanding a
few delays, and steered straight for the foot of the
Eiger. In the early morning the rocks around the
glacier and the lateral moraines were hard and slippry.
Before long, however, we found ourselves well on the
ice, near the central axis of the Eiger glacier, and
looking up at the great terfacc-shaped ice-masses,
separated by deep crevasses, whieli rose threateningly
over our heads, one above another, like the defences
of some fortification. And here began the first
little dispute 'between Oberland and Chammux. The
Chamonix men proposed a direct assault on the net-
work of crevasses above us. Laueuer said that we
ought to turn them by crossing to tha south-west side,
immediately below the Munch. My friends and their
guides forming a majority, and seeming to have little
respect for the arguments urged by the minority, we
gave in and followed them, with many mattered re-
marks from Lauener. We soon found ourselves per-
forming a series of manoeuvres like those required for
the ascent of the Col du* Geant. At times we were
lying flat in little gutters on the faces of the seracs,

THE PLAYQBOUND OF EUBOPE

wonping ourselves along like boa-constrictors. At the
nest moment yte we^ balancing ourselves on a knife-
edge of ice beturecn two crevasses, or pUfhging into tlio
very bowels of the glacier, with a natural arch of ice
meeting above our heads. I need not attempt to
‘ttSBcribe difficulties and dangers familiar to all ice-
travellers. Like other such difficulties, they were
exciting and even rather amusing for a time, but
unfortunately they seemed inclined to last rather too
long. Some of the deep crevasses apparently stretched
almost from side to side of .the glacier, rending its
whole mass into distorted fragments. In attem1>ting
to find a way throu^ them, we seemed to be going
nearly as far backward^as forwards, and the labyrinth
in which we were involved was as hopelessly intricate
after a long struggle as it had been at first.^ Moreover,
the sun had long touched the higher anow-Helds, and
was creeping down to us step b^ step. As soon as it
reached the huge masses amongst which we were pain-
fully toiling, some of them would begin to jump about
like hailstones in a shower, and our position would
become really dangerous. The Chamonix guides, in
fact, declared it to be dangerous already, and warned
us not to speak, for fear of bringing some of the nicely-
poised ice-maascs down on our heads. cOn my trans-
lating this well-meant piece of advice to Lauener, he
immediately selected tfie most dangerous-looking
pinnacle in sight, and mounting to the top of it sent
forth a series of screams, loud enough, I should have

THE EIQEE JOCH

IV

thought, to bring down the top of the Monch. They
failed, however, to dislodge any |(|racB, and Lauener,
going to the h>ont, called to ns to follow him. By
this time we wore all glad to follow any one who
was confident enough to lead. Turning to our right,
we crossed the glacier in a direction parallel to tHh*
deep* crevasses, and therefore unobstructed by auy
serious obstacles, till we found ourselves immediately
beneath theigreat clifb of the Monch. Our prospects
changoid at once. A groat fold in the glacier pro-
duces a kind of diagonal pathway, stretching upwards
from the point \\herc we stood towards the rocks of
the Eiger. It was not, indeed, exactly a carriage-road,
but along the line which dividdb two different systems
of crevasse the glacier seemed tw have been crushed
into smaller, fragments, producing, as it w'ere, a kind
of incipietft maeadamisation. The masses, instead of
being divided Jl)y long regular ttremdies, were crumbled
and jammed together so as to form a road, easy and
pleasant enough by comparison with our former
difficulties. Pressing rapidly up thi^rough path, we
soon found ourselves in tlie very heart of the glacier,
with a broken wilderness of ice on ever^^side. We
were in one of the grandest positions I have ever seen
for observing the wonders of the ice-world ; but those
wonders were not all of an encouraging nature. For,
looking up to the snow-helds now close above us, an
obstScle appeared which i&ade us think tliat all our
previous labours had been in vain. From side to side

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

of the glacier a vast paliesade of blue ice^pinnocles
struck up through white layers of neve formed
by the first plunge of the glacier down^s waterfall of
ice. Some of them rose in fantastic shapes — ^huge
blocks balanced on narrow footstalks, and only waiting
;or the first touch of the sun to fall in ruins down the
slope below. Others rose like church spires, or like
square towers, defended by trenches of unfathomable
depth. Once beyond this barrier, we should be safe
upon the highest plateau of the glacier at the foot of
the last snow-slope. But it was obviously necessary
to turn them by some judicious strategical movelnent.
One plan was to climb the lower rocks of the Eiger ;
but, after a moment’s*heBitation, we fortunately fol-
lowed Lauener towards the other side of the glacier,
where a small gap, between the seracs aijd the lower
slopes of^the Mbnch, seemed to be the entrance to a
i%rvine that might lead us ui)wards. ttuch it turned
out to be. Instead of the rough footing to which we
had hitherto been unwillingly restricted, we found
ourselves ascending a narrow gorge, with the giant
cliffs of the Mdneh on our right, and the toppling ice-
pinnacles <jn our loft. A beautifully even surface of
snow, scarcely marked by a single crevasse, lay beneath
our feet. We pressed rapidly up this strange little
pathway, as it wound steeply upwards between the
rocks and the ice, OKpecting at every moment to see it
thin out, or break off at some impassable crevass^ It
was, 1 presume, formed by the sliding of avalanches

THE EIOEB.JOCH

129

from the elopes of the Mdnoh. At any rate, to our
delight, it led us gradually round ^he barrier of seracs,
till in a few mi%KiteB we found ourselves on the highest
plateau of the glacier, the crevasses fairly beaten, and
a level plain of snow stretching from our feet to the
last snow-slope.

We were now standing on the edge of a small level
plateau. One, and only one, gigantic crevasse of really
surpassing beauty stretched ri^t across it. This was,
we guessed, some three hundred feet deep, and its sides
passed gradually into the lovely blues and greens of
semi-transparent ice, whilst long rows and dusters of
huge icicles imitated (as Lauener remarked) the carv-
ings and ecclesiastical furniture’of some great cathedral.
The opposite side of the plain wm bounded by a great
snow-ridge, which swept round it in a long semicircular
curve froiSi the l^Ionch to the Eiger. This ridge, in
fact, forms the connecting isthmus by which the great
promontory of the Eiger is joined to its bretliren of
the Oberland. Close to the Munch the slopes are of
great height and steepness, wliilst, owing to the
gradual rise of tlie snow-fields and the sinking of the
ridge, they become very insignificant at the end nest
to the Eiger. A reference to the map will explain the
geography of our position. The pass which we were
attempting would naturally lie over the shoulder, where
the coiuiecting isthmus I have mentioned articulates
with the lower ridges of t^e Mdnch. Lauener had, in
fact, reached this exact point from tlie other side. And

THE PLAYOBOUNV OF EUROPE

we knew that, once there, we should be on the edge
of a nearly level bas^ of snow, which stretches across
the Mbnch-Joch, or ridge connecting tlfe Monch with
the Walcherenhurncr. This basin is, in fact, the
common source of the Aletsch and Yicscher * glaciers,
■^Ad the mound of the Mbnch-Joch which divides them
is very slightly defined across the undulating beds of
neve. From this basin, however, the Yiesoher glacier
sinks very rapidly, and consequently the ridge between
the Monch and Eiger, which rises above it in bare
rock cliffs, is much loftier near the Eiger than near the
Monch on its south-eastern side — the exact opposite
of its form on the north-western side, as already
mentioned. Hence, te reach our pass, wo had the
choice either of aW once attacking the long steep
slopes which led directly to the desired yoint on the
shoulder of the Monch, or of first cliipbin{fthe gentle
slopes neSr the Eiger, and then forcuig our way along
the back-bone of the ridge. We resolved to try the
last plan first.

Accordingly, ^after a hasty breakfast at 9.B0, we
started across our little snow-plain and commenced the
ascent. After a short climb of no great difficulty,
merely pausing to chip a few steps out of the hard
crust of snow, we successively stepped gafely on to the
top of the ridge. As each of my predecessors did so,

The beet known Vieecher glacier is, of course, that which
descends from the Oberaar-Joch t<^arda Viesch. The glacici^ men-
tioned in the text is the groat tributary of the lower Grindclwald
glacier, called * Yiescher * glacier in the Carte Dufuur.

THE BIOEHJOOH

I observed that he first looked along the arete, then
down the cliffs before him, and then turned with a very
blank expression of face to his neighbour. From our
feet the bare cliffs sank down, covered with loose rocks,
but too steep to hold more than patches of snow, and
presenting right dangerous climbing for many hundreds
foet towards the Grindolwald glaciers. The arete
offered a prospect not much better : a long ridge of
snow, sharp as the blade of a knife, was playfully
nlternated with great rocky teeth, striking up through
their icy covering, like the edge of a saw. Wo held a
counoil standuig, and considered the following pro*
positions: — First, Lauener coolly proposed, and nobody
seconded, a descent of the precipices towards Grindel-
wald. This proposition produce^ a subdued shudder
from the travellers and a volley of nnrei)ortable
language from the Chamonix guides. It was liable,
amongst other, things, to the trifling objection that 4
would take us just the way we did not want to go.
The Chamonix men now proposed that we should follow
the arete. This was disix)sed of by Lanener's objection
that it would take at least six hours. We should have
had to cut steps down the slope and up again round
each of the rocky teeth 1 have mentionM; and 1
believe that this calculation of time was very probably
correct. Finally, we unanimously resolved upon the
only course open to us — to descend once more into our
little^ralley, and thence to cut our way straight up the
long slopes to the shoulder of the Monch.

126

I

THE PLAYQBOUND OF FjUBOPE

f

Considerably disappointed at this unexpected check,
we retired to the foot of the slopes, feeling that we had
no time to lose, bnt Wll hoping that a/ouplu of hours
more might see us at the top of the pass. It was just
eleven as we crossed a small bergsehrund and began the
jh6cent. Lauener led the way to cut the steps, followed
by the two other guides, who deepened and polished
them up. Just as we started, 1 remarked a kind of
bright track drawn down the ice in h-ont of us, appa-
rently by the frozen remains of some small rivulet which
had been trickh'ng down it. 1 guessed that it would take
some fifty steps and half-an-hour’s work to rcgch it.
Wo cut about fifty steps, however, in the first half-
hour, and were not a quarter of the way to my mai'k ;
and as even when^here we should not be half-way
to the top, matlprs began to look serious. Tlie
ice was very hard, and it was nocessarf,4s Lauener
observed) to cut steps in it as big as soup-tureens,
for the result of a slip would ii; all probability have
been that the rest of our lives would have been spent
in sliding down a snow-slope, and that that employ-
ment would not; have lasted long enough to become
at all monotonous. Time slipped by, and I gradu-
ally became weary of a sound to which at first I
always listen with pleasure— the chipj)ing of the axe,
and the hiss of the fragments as they skip down
the long incline below «ib. Moreover, the sun was
very hot, and reflected with oppressive power frola. the
bright and polished surfitce of the ice. I could see

THE BIGEB.JOCH

127

I

that a certain flask was circulating with great steadi-
ness amongst the guides, and the work of cutting the
steps seemed^o be extremely severe. I was counting
the 2(;0th stop, when we at last reached the little line
I had been so long watching, and it even then required
a glance back at the long line of steps behind to convince
me that we had in flict made any progress. The actm
of resting one’s whole weight on one leg for about a
minute, and then slowly transferring it to the other,
becomes wearisome when protracted for hours. Still
the excitement and interest made the time pass quickly.
1 was in constant suR])cuse lest Lauener should pro-
nounce for a retreat, which would have been not merely
liumiliatiug, but not improbably dangerous, amidst
the crumbling seracs in the afternoon sun. £ listened
with some amusement to the low meanings of little
Charlct,.wdb was apparently bewailing his position to
Croz, and being hetirtlessly chaffed in retuQi. One or
two measurements with a clinometer of Mathews’ gave
inclinations of 51° or 52°, and the slope was perhaps
occasionally a little more.

At last, as I was counting tlfb 580th step, we
reached a little patch of rock, and felt ourselves once
more on solid ground, with no small satisfaction. Not
that the ground was 8i)ecially solid. It was a small
crumbling patch of rock, and every stone wo dislodged
went bounding rapidly dqjvn the side of the slope,
diflunishing in apparent# size till it disappeared in the
bergschmnd, hundreds of feet below. However, each

m THE PLAYQBOUND OF EUROPE

of US managed to find some nook in Drhich^e eould
stow himself away, whilst the ChamoniY men took
their turn in front, and cut stops straiglift upwards to
the top of the slope. By this means they kept along
a kind of rocky rib, of which our patch was the lowest
^PQint, and we thus could occasionally get a footstep
on rock instead of ice. Once on the top of the slope,
we could see no obstacle intervening between us and
the point over which our pass must lie.

Meanwhile we meditated on our position. It was
already four o’clock. After twelve hours’ unceasing
labom*, we were still a long w*ay on the wrong si^e of
the pass. We were clingiug to a ledge in the mighty
snow-wall which sank ^heer dow n below us and rose
steeply above om* heads. Beneath our feet the whole
plain of Switzerland lay with a faint purple haze drawn
over it like a veil, a few green sparkles jtfs(j>ointing
out the Lake of Thun. Nearer, and apparently almost
immediately below us, lay the \Vengern Alp, and the
little inn we had left twelve hours before, whilst we
could just see the back of the labyrinth of crevasses
where we had wandered so long. Through a telescope
I could even distinguish people standing about the inn,
who no doubt were contemplating our motions. As we
rested the Chamonix guides had cut a staircase up the
slope, and we prepared to follow. It was harder work
than before, for the whole #lope was now covered with
a kind of granular snow, and^esembled a huge pile of
hailstones. The hailstones poured into every footstep

THE EIGER JOCH

129

as it was cut, and had to be cleared oat with hands
and feet before we could get even a slippeiy foothold.
As wo crept cautiously up this treacherous staircase, I
could not help reflecting on th(‘ lively Ijounds with
which the stones and fragments of ice had gone spin-
ning from our last halting-place dow'n to the yawning
bergschrund below. Wo succeeded, however, in avoid-
ing their example, and a staircase of about one hundred
steps brought us to the top of tho ridge, but at a point
still at some distance from the pass. It was necessary
to turn along tho ai’eto towards tho Moiich. We were
propaiing to do this by k(>eping on the snow lidge,
when Lanener, jumping down about six fet't on tho
side opposite to that by which weluid ascended, alighted
upon a little lodge of rock, and caHod to us to follow .
lie assured ujj that it was granite, and that therefore
there was itb danger of slipping. The sun had mi'lled
tho snow on th« southern side of the ridge, so tliat xt luf
longer ([uito covered tho inclined jdane of rwk uiwin
which it restoxl. The path thus exixosed was narn>w
and treacherous enough in appearance at first ; soon,
however, it grow broader, and, compared with our ico-
climb, afforded capital footing. The precipice beneath
us thinned out as tho Viescher glacier rose towards our
pass, and at last we found ourselves at the edge of a
little mound of snow, through which a few idunging
steps brought us, just at six o'^ock, to tho long-desired
shoulder of the klouch. *

I cannot describo the pleasure with which wo

K

*180 THE PLAYGBOUND OF EUBOP^

stepped at last on to the little saddle of snow, and felt
that we had won the victory. We hul made a pass
equal in beauty and diflSculty to any fost-rate pass in
the Alps —1 should rather say to any pass and a half.
For, whereas most such passes can show but two fine
views, we here enjoyed three. From the time of our
reaching; the summit of the ridge wjs had been en-
veloped in a light mist. Shortly after wo liiul gained
the col, this mist suddenly drew up likt* a curtain ;
and as mountain after mountain came out in every
direction from a i)oinl of Aiew quite new to me, 1 felt
perfectly bewildered. We were on the edge of three
great basins. Behind us the plain of Switzerland
stretched away to tAo Jura. On our left a huge
amphitheatre of ^eier sank down, markt‘d in long
concentric curves by tier after tier of c^vasses to tin*
level of the Grindelwald glacier. JBeyolId rose the
* sheer cliffs of the Wetterhorn, and further back from
the plain the black cluster of rocks of the Schreck-
homer. This view is invisible from the (’ol de la
Jungfrau, andds so ominently beautiful that T should
recommend visitors from the ^Eggischhorn to prefer
this col tq the other. It is as easily reached from the
southern side, and is alone worth th(‘ trouble, if it be
not profane to speak of tlie troublu of such a walk.
But the finest part of the view remains. * Wo were
standing at the edge of a great basin of snow. From
its further side the great ^etsch glacier stretched away
from our foot like the reach of some gigantic river

THE EIQER.JOCH

IM.

•frozen over, and covered from side to side vrith a level
sheet of puro^hite snow, sweeping gradually away in
one grand curve till it was lost to sight in the dis-
tance. Beyond it rose the Monte Leone and the
ranges that look dow’n on Italy. On each side rose
some of the noblest mountains in Switzerland — the
Jungfrau, l^hmch, Alctschhorn, and the long jagged
range of the Viescherhorner, with the needle-point of
the Finsteraai'horn overlooking them. So noble and
varied a sweep of glacier is visible nowhere else in the
Alps. Is it visible on the Eiger- Joch ? Bid we really
see tilt Monte licone, the Jungfrau, and the Aletsch-
horn with our l>odily eyes, or were they revealed only
to the eye of faith ? Have I, Hi short, written down
accurately what I saw at a givemmoment, or have I
((uietly assumed that we saw everything which was
visible dining tlio remainder of our walk to the
yEggibchhorn ){ 1 regret to say that 1 have un*
doubti‘dly used a certain poetic license —a fact which
I ascertained by once more reaching the Eiger-Joch
in 1H70, though not from the same sidi'. The kidnch
and Trugberg cut off a large part of the view, and
only a limited part of the great sweep of t^e Aletsch
glacier is visible from the col itself. Without adding
to the weaknessaof a blunder the folly of an apology,
T will simply remark that he who sees only what is
before his eyes scqs the worst part of every view. Let
the imagination remove the Monch and Trugberg, and
everything that 1 havo described will be visible ; whilst

t82

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE^

even the prosaic persons who carry note-books to bind
themselves down to what Clon^h enUs ^the inerost it
was,’ and thus cramp their excursions to the ‘ great
might have been,’ will find that perch on the shoulder
of the Mouch to be almost incomparable in variety
“and magnific(‘uce. 1 will add that though the pass
has, for some reason, never b«‘eu repeated, I see no
reason to suiipose it to be specially difficult. M,\ guide
on the later occasion maintained that we could have
descended the long slopes, which took ns seven hours
to climb in 1R50, in an hour and a half. But they
were now snow instead of ice. We saw, too, ft route
along tlie cliffs which fall from the ridge tow'ards the
Grindclwald glacier \fhich may turn out to be practi-
cable when there hi little snow. 1 leave t]u> task to
another generation of climlx rs.

Meauw'hile our thoughts pardonably Mncentrated
'themselves on the important question of food. Of tin
two reciuisites for a satisfach'ry meal, one, vis. tlu
provisions, was abundantly prcs«>iit. I f.uiciid too, at
first, that my itppetite would do its part ; but, on tiy-
ing to swallow some meat, 1 found that our long fast
since the last meal, combined with the baking we had
undergone, had so parched my mouth, that the effort
was useless. My thoughts turned tc^a refreshing cup
of tea and a bed at the ^jggischhorn. But, alas!
the inn was seven hohrs off ; it was (1 p.m., and the
sun near setting. Laueher mentioned certaih mtll~
derhen and some coffee, which he believed to be at the

TTUi EiaEli-JOCU

aa;

Faalbcr^; iVand the Faulberg, though we knew it to
b(' ono of thXse caves from which the whole of oue side
and the roof nave been removed, immediately beemed
to us to be the pleasantest hotel in Switzerland. We
started olf with enthusiasm to g>un it. Fassuig
rapidly round the gi'eat snow-basin between the
Mojich and the Trugberg, we easily reached the
summit of the Monch-Joch ; whence a rather steep
slope leads to the head of the glacier called \\\aFAn(jer
Sclmce. xVt foot of the fall, which is perhaps some
lifly feet high, is a bergsclirund. Lauener, planting
his fe^t in the snow above, prepared to lower eiu-h of
us by the rope. Suddenly G. Mathews lost his foot-
ing, shot down the slope like a^ash of lightning, and
dibupiwared over the tdge of the bergsehruud. To
our groiit relief we immediately heard him call out
‘ All right*^’ anti the next moment ho appeared full of
snow, bid oth<)r\\i!>enone the worse for bis intolmdary
glissade. Wc followed with the help of the ropt‘, and
started down the glacier once more. Wc were scarcely
off when the brotul reach before us luriicd first to a
glorious rose-colour, and then faded to a livid hue as
the light crept up the sides of the moimtains. Soon
they, too, turned pale ; the glow lingered a little on the
loftiest peaks, t^cn faded too, and left us to the light
of the moon, wliich was still clear enough to guide us.

Lauener took this opport&nity of remarking that
he htfH been very unwell fdl* three days before, and was
consequently rather tired. He added presently that

]|^4 THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE .

he conld not see, and did not in the least where
ho was going. I do not implicitly beUfre either of
these statements, which struck me as being rather ill*
timed. However, we marched steadily forwards in a
long straggling line over the beautifully even surface
of the glacier, already crisp with the evening frost,
anxiously watching the sinking moon, and calculating
whether her light would enable us to reach the
Faulberg.

We were making good progress, and the hospitable
Faulberg was coming almost into sight, when we
reached the point where the glacier curls ovei' fur a
steep descent, just above the confluence of the glaciers
from the Lotschsattel Snd Griinhovnliicke. Kero a few
concealed crevassestcausing the partial disappearance
of some of our party, made a resort to the roi)c neces-
sary. Fastening ourselves together, we agftiin pressed
on as fast as we could. But the crevasses grow more
numerous and broader, and the surface of the ice more
steeply inclined. lu the faint moonlight we could
hardly tell what,we were treading upon — treacherous
snow-bridges or slippery slides of ice. A stumble or
two nearly brought us all in a heap together. More-
over the Aletschhom had chosen to shove its head up
just in the way of the moon ; and at last, as wo were
all getting rather puzzled how to proceed, the moon
suddenly dipped behind* it, the great shadow of the
mountain shot out over nB,*and we were left all alone
in the dark. Looking hastily round in the faint twilight,

THE EKlEJi-JOCH

183

we could make out a great mass of rock ou our
right hand.\This forms part of the great promontory
which divided the two main branches of the Aletsch
glacier. We made for it at once, found no crevasses
to ttop us, and stepped once more off the ice on to
dry land. We unanimously resolved to stay where wft
were till daylight should appear. Wo unfastened the
ropes, took a glass of witie. all round, and determined
to make ourselves comfortable, llaving drunk my
wine, and made a perfectly futile attempt to sw'allow
a bit of brea<l, I pul on a iMur of dry stockuigs which I
had 41 my pocket over uiy wet ones, stuck my feet
into a knapsack, and sat down on some nliarp stones
under a big ruck. My conipiynous must obligingly
sat down on eacli side of me, which tended miiterially
to keep off the cold night whid, and one of them
shared n^ ihiapsack. My seat may very easily bo
imitated by any one who will take the trouble to lill
one of the gutters by the side of a pa\od street with a
hea]} of granite stones prepared for macadamising a
roail. If ho will sit down there for a frosty night, and
induce a couple of friends to sit with him, he will
doubtless learn to sympathise with us. Lauenev care-
fully warm'd us not to go to sleep, and 1 ttiink I may
say wo fuliilled our promise of obeyhig his injunctions,
with the e\cei)tion of a doze or two towards morning.
Lauencr himself rose once into exuberant spirits. His
good^omper and fun seemed to rise with the occasion ;
and after telling us a variety of anecdotes, beginning

m THE PLAYGltOUND OE EUROPE

’ V .

with chamois-hnnting and ending (of all thnigs in the
world) with examinations— for it seeing that Swiss
guides share, with under-graduates, tnis particular
form of misery — he retired to the nook which the
Chamonix guides had selected, and, to the best of my
l^lief, passed the rest of the night in chaffing them.

There is, of course, somotliing disagreeable in pass-
ing a night ‘ squirming ’ (to use an Americanism) on a
heap of stones, and making fruitless endeavours to
arrange their sharp corners into a soft surface to sit
upon, by a series of scientific wriggles. I fully ex-
l)ected to get up in the morning stuck all oven with
pebbles, like a large pat of batter dropped into a
sugar basin. In oth|)r respects I believe I really
enjoyed the night. ,The cold was not intense, and in
fact I rarely felt it at all. Partly the excitement, and
partly the beauty of the perfectly still aiifi aijent night
preveute<k its seeming long. The huge^snow-covered
mountains that glimmered faintly through the dark-
ness, the long glorious glacier, half seen as it swept
away from our feet, and the i)erfect stillness of the
scene, wore very striking. We felt that our little party
was in absolute solitude in the very centre of the
greatest wa#to of ice and bore rock in the Alps. I will
not, however, deny that towards morning I got a little
chilly, not to say sulky. Gradually the mountain
forms became more distmet, the outlines of rock and
snow showed themselves more plainly, and 1 was Ignite
surprised, on looking at my watch for the first time, to

THE EIUERJOCH

ISJ

find tliatVu was half-past two, and to seo Lauener
comiujT to tkl iiH it was time to start.

We jumped up, shook ourselves, struggled into our
frozen boots, and made a futile attempt at breakfast.
The dangers of tlie darkness had disappeared ; but the
pleasure and excitement had gone too, and it was a
right dreary walk that morning to tlio ^ggisc-hliorn.
'L'lie Aletsch glacier is intersected by a number of
little crevasses, just too broad to ste^), and wide enough
to lire weary men. As we walked on down its broad
monotonous surface, I was surprised to find how ex-
tremely ugly cverj'thing looked. It was a 1>eautiful
day, and before us, as we approached the Mtirjelen ffeo,
rose one of the loveliest of Airline views — the Matter-
horn, flanked by the noble pyranj^ids of the Mischabol
and Weisbhoru. I looked at it with utter indifference,
and tho^gh^ what I should order for breakfast.
JJodily fatigiu^and appreciation of natural sAsnery arp
simply incompatible. We somehow contrived to split
into three parties, and the rapidity with which we lost
sight of each other was a curious proof of the vast size
of the glacier. A parly of our Mends passed us on
their way from the /lilggistdihom to the Jnngfran-
•loch, but we failed to see them. The uder insigni-
ficance of a human figure on those wastes of ice is
one of the first things by which wo learn to appreciate
their vast size. *

Ltiueuer and 1 found •our way to some chalets,
where a draught of worm milk was truly refreshing.

THE ELAYUEOUND OF EUllOFE

1 need hardly say that after it we inant^d to lose
oiir way over the abominahle slopes of Ufo /Bggisch*
horn. Shoulder after shoulder of that dreary moun-
tain came out in endless succession, and 1 was glad
enough to see the friendly little white house a little
before nine o’clock, and to rejoin my friends over a
luxurious breakfast provided by its admirable land-
lord.

139

C’HAPTEK VI

TUB Jl'NOFRAU-JOCll

'J'unEB y(‘ar8 afterwards I was once more standing
«l)on the Wengern Alp, and gazing longingly at the
Jinigfran-Jucli. Surely the Wengcm Alp must bo
precisely the loveliest {dace in this world. To hurry
past it, and listen to the roar ef the avalanches, is a
very unsatisfactory mode of enj^mont; it reminds
one too much of letting ofi* crackers in a cathedral.
The mouijtaihs sei'in to Ih* accomplices of the i)eople
who charge fi^ty centimes for an echo, llfit it do<>^
one’s moral nature good to linger there at sunset
or in the early morning, when tourists have ceased
from travelling and the jaded cockney may enjoy a
kind of spiritual hath iii the soothing calmness of the
scenery. It is delicious to lie niK)u the short crisp
turf under the Lauberhorn, to listen to ^he distant
cow-bells, and to try to catch the moment at which tlie
lust glow dies off the summit of the Jimgfrau ; or to
watch a light summer mist dtiving by, and the gi'eat
mountains look ihrough its rents at intervals from an
apparently impossible height above the clouds. It is

J40 THE PLA70B0UND OF EUROPE

pleasant to look out in the curly morning ^lij^om one of
the narrow windows, when the Jmigfrau •t&ems gi’adu-
ally to mould itself out of darkness, slowly to reveal
every fold of its torn glaciers, and then to light up
with an ethereal fire. The mountahi might almost
he taken for the original of the exquisite lines in
Tithonus :

Onco more the old mj'htcrious gliiumcr steals
From thy pure brow^, and from thy shoulders pure
And bosom beating with a heart renewed.

Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine
E’er yel they blind the Btai*»; and the wild team
That love thee, yearning for thy }oke, arise
And shake the darkness from their loosened manes, ^

And beat the sunlight into flakes of fire.

We, that is a littla party of six Englishmen with
six Obcrlaml guides, who loft the iun at 3 a.m., on
July 20, 1862, were not, perhaps, in a specially poetical
mood, i'ot as the sun rose whilst we ^^jerO* cKinbing the
huge huth’css of the Mouch, the dullest pf us — 1 refer
of course to myself — felt something of the spirit of the
scenery. The day was cloudless, and a vast inverted
cone of dazzling rays suddenly struck upwards into the
sky through the gap between the Monch and the
Eiger ; which, as some effect of i>erspective shifted its
apparent i)osition, looked like a glory streaming from
the very summit of the Eiger. It waq a good omen,
if not in any more remote sense, yet as promising a
fine day. After a short elimb we descended upon the-
(juggi glacier, most lamentably unpoftical of names,
and mounted by it to the groat pls’teau which lies

THE JUNGFBAU.JOCE

141

below theV cliffs immediately under the col. We
reached thisiat about seven, and, after a short meal,
carefully exaTiiiiiod the route nlx>ve us. Half way
between us and the col lay a small and apparently
level plateau of snow. Once upon it we felt conM(‘nt
that wu could got to the toj). Hut between us and it
lay a broken and distorted mass of crevassed glacier,
the passage of which seemed very doubtful. Wc ‘
might, however, turn part of this by erteping up a
mass of icy debris, which lay at the foot of a cliff of
protruding ice, the abrupt end of a glacier crawling
down over the cliffs above us. The process would bo
precisely equivalent to walking in front of a battery of
cannon which might open fire<at any moment. There
is homt'thing about the appang^ repose of the icy
masses, and, it must be added, the rarity of a fall,
which templV one strongly to run an occasional risk of
the kind. Ip the present instance our gifides wese
certainly awake to the danger. So unpromising, how’-
ever, was the appearance of tlie distorted glacier upon
our right, that thrc'c of them went forwards to examine
this smoother hut more treacheroirs route. We sat
down and watched them, not without some anxiety.
But after the pleasant process of cutting slieps for half
an hour under a mass of glacier in an uncertain con-
dition of eqriilihriam,they returned to ns with the news
that farther ascent by tliier route was impracticable^
as ^'ell as daigoruus. Ko alternative was now left
but to oxamin^ the maze of crevasses on our right.

<142

THE PLAYOBOUND OF EUBOPE

Christian Michel, Christian Aimer, and/Eanfmann,
accordingly went forwards to try to ponq^ate it. We
watched them creeping forwards round the base of a
huge pinnacle of ice, at the other side of which they
disappeared. Wo sat quietly on the snow, finished
our breakfast, and smoked our pipes. Morgan sang us
some of the songs of his native land (Wales) ; somebody
occasionally struck in with an English chorus ; Bau-
mann irrelevantly contributed a few German verses.
Gradually our songs died away, and we took to con-
templating the scenery. 'Morgan, who had spoken
very disparagingly of the Weng<'rn Alp as coufpai'ed
M ith the scenery of Ben-y-Gwryd, admitted that our
present view was iio4 luiliko that above the Llyn
Llydaw, on the sid^pf Snowdon, though, as ho urged,
the quantity of snow rather spoilt it. Gradually our
conversation slackenctl. The only soiynKwas the boik-
ifig of ah invisible dog at tht> Wengcfn Alp, which
came sharp and distinct through the clear mounhiin air
from the distant inn. Nothing could bo heard or seen
of the three guides who had gone forwards. A very
long interval seemed to have passed away.

We all sat looking at each other in an uncomfort-
able frame* of mind, feeling an amount of anxiety
which wo were unwilling to express. 1, could not avoid
the recollection that the last time Christian Aimer had
left me on a glacier, T hifd only found him again with
two of his ribs broken. When Georg^said something
about going to look for our lost guid«, we scouted his

THE JUNGFRAU.JOCH

143

proposition \7ith a dciermination proportioiiod to our
wish not toNhelicve in its necessity. Our nervousness
was, however, gradually becoming intolerable, and ue
w'oro about to decide that something must be done.
Suddenly, after at lotist two hours’ waiting, we heard a
faint shout. Looking upwards, we could just distin-
guish three black llgurcs at th(‘ edge of the small
snow plateau. ‘ What do they say, ^ifichel ? Are we
to come ? ’ * AV/m, //< rr.’ ‘ And what is it that they

are saying now ? ’ ‘ Something about a hi Uhi'si'r

aihruntl' which I take to be a sehrund of such
enortuity as lo 1m' past praying for. They wore
evidently repulsed. We sat down on the snow in
what 1 may call a ruiilud frumwof mind, and waited for
their return. Morgan (pioted a#proverb in Welsh—
the only literary remains of one of the greatest of
Welsh hac,^'S,*Avarawd, so he informed us— the trans-
lation of it being ‘ for tlie imi)atient patienA' is need-
tul,’ or words to that effect. Whilst we were discussing
the least ignominious way of getting to the .Eggisch-
honi under the cireuiustaucea, our gyides reappeared.
They had been stoppe<l, they told us, hy a huge
crevasse, thirty feet broad in places, and running
right at'voss the glacier, dividing it into Wo distinct
fragments ; oupe beyond it, we should have won the
day, and by means of a la«lder tw'outy-five feet long
they thought it might be pofciblo to got over it at one ^
point. All our dlspondene^ was over. We unanimously
resolved to go^ock to the Wengern Alp and send

, THE PLAYQBOVND OF EVBOPE

down for a ladder ; and, accordingly, tho same evening,
the ladder appeared in charge of one P^^ler Bubi, a
man who possesses in great perfection the weight*
carrying jiowers of the Oborland guides in general.

The next mornmg, starting at 3.r>, we had arrived
at the same place as before, at G.12. We plunged at
once into the maze of crevasses, finding our 'passage
much facilitated by the prenous efforts of our guides.
We had to \^nd round towers of ice intrenched by
deep crevasses, carefully treading in our guides’ well-
cut footholds. A clinometer, which showed various
symiitoms of eccentricity throughout the day, -made
some specially strong statements at this point. By
interrogating one of (Ime instruments judiciuu*(l>, the
inclination of Holhorn Hill may be brought to ap-
l)ro\imate to 00°. A more serious inconvenionce was
derived from the extremely unsteady ,coiidiiion of the
towering' ice-pinnacles around us. W<-‘ "ere con-
stantly walking over ground strewed with crumbling
blocks of ice, the recent fall of which was proved by
their shari) whi^e fractures, and with a thing like an
infirm toad-stool twenty feet high towering above our
heads. Once we passed under a natural arch of ice,
built in evnlent disregard of all principles of architec-
tural stability. Hurrying judiciously ^at such critical
points, and creeping slowly round those where the
footing was difficult, we *managcd to thread the laby-
rinth safely, whilst Bubi f(t>poared tl think it rather
pleasant than otherwise in such placn to have his head

TBE JUNGFRAU-JOCH

14»

fixed in a kind of pillory between two rungs of a
ladder, with twelve feet of it sticking out behind and
twelve feet before him. Wo reached the gigantic
crevasse at 7.8S. We passed along it to a i>ouit
where its two lips nearly joined, and the side furthest
from us was considerably liighcr than that upon which
wo stood^. Fixing the foot of the ladder uiion this
lodge, wo swung the top over, and found that it rested
satisfactorily against the opposite bank. <s Aimer crept
up it, and made the top firmer by driving his axo into
Uio snow underneath the highest step. The rest of us
followed, carefully roped, and with the caution to rest
our knees on the sidi's of the ladder, as several of the
steps were extremely weak— H remark which was
eijually aiiplicnblc to one, at least, •of the sides. AVe
crept up the rickety old machine, however, looking
dou n betwPol^ tun* legs into the blue depths of the
('rexasse, and* at H.15 the wliole party fouTid itself
satisfactorily perched on the edge of the nearly level
snow plateau, looking up at the long s'opcs of broken
neve that led to the col. •

A little discussion now ensued as to the route to be

taken. The most obvious way xvas through the steep
semes immediately under the snowy col. The guides,
howex’er, deloru)hicd upon trying to turn these by cut-
ting their way up the stead} slopes moro to the right.
Aimer and Michel acconliugl^ went forward and set

to work, whilst ^e indulged in a second anomalous
meal. For a timi they went on merrily. The snow

<146

THE PLAYQIiOUND OF EUBOPE

9

was in good order, and required only a single blow
from the axe. The fragments which rolled down ui)on
ns were soft and harmless. Soon, however, they began
to be mixed with suspicious lumps of hard blue ice.
Aimer and Michel seemed to be crawling forwards
more and more slowly. The labour was evidently
considerable for every foot of i)rogress won. I began
to remember, with increasing distinctness, our experi-
ence of the exactly corresponding x>lace on the Eiger-
Joch. The elopes through which we had there cut our
way w’oro neither so long nor so steep as those now
before us, and the snow' here was equally hard.** For-
tune seemed to be turning against us. Our spirits,
which had risen with the successful pivssago of the
crevasse, begun tw -fall again. The prospect of a re-
turn through unsteady soracs in the heat of the day,
to present ourselves a second timoto th(f jc6sBof tourists
* on the Wengern Alp, was not attractiw. Our cheer-
ful reflections were arrested by the return of Michel
and Aimer. They agi'ecd that the staircase on which
they had now ^pent an hour’s work must be abandoned ;
but we might still try the groat wall of seracs on the
left. It would lie very hard to give to aijiy but Aliune
readers the least notion of what the task before us was
like. 1 reject unhesitatingly Morgai^’s stiitement that
it was exactly similar to the ascent of the Glydirs
from Llyn Ogwen. We had to climb a wall built of
seracs, their interstices filastered j p with snow, and
the whole inclined at an angle of b/tween 60° and 60 ^

TUli JVNdFUAU-JUClT

14f

Every now and tlien, where the masonry had been
inferior, a {»r('at Knob of serac protruded, tilting np the
s^ow to a hteep augle, and giving us a block of solid
icc to circumvent. Deep cre\ asses, arranged on no
pju’ticubir princi})le, intcrsecti*d this charming wall in
every direction where limy weu* not wanted. It may
be tolerably represented by imagining the seracs of
the Col du (leant iillod iii^, and jammed together by
their weight at a steep angle. Michel and Aimer led
the way rapidly and eagerly. Sometimes we could
gel on for a few ptu'es in snow : sometimes the axe
was Ailed into i>lay. But we all pushed forwards as
fast as we could, jind in dangerous i)laces those who
had i)assed professed to help tlft* others, by hauling in
the rope as hard as they t ould. When the man behhid
was also eiiguged in hauling himself up by the rope
f attached W yfluy waist, when the two portions of the
rope formed sui acute angle, when your footing waS
conhiu'd to the insecure grip of one toe on a slippery
bit of icc, and wh<tn a great hummock of hard serac
was pressing against the pit of }Our a|>nmach and re-
ducing yo\i to a position of neutral equilibrium, the
result was a feeUng of quailiiied acquiescence in
Michel or Aimer’s lively suggestion of ‘Yorwairtsl
vorwurts ! ’ ,

Somehow or other we did ascend. The excitement
mado^the time seem short ; aSid after what seemed to
me to be half mi hour, w^ieh was in fact nearly two
hours, we had cri|pt, crawled, climbed, and wormed our

148

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

way through various obstacles, till we found ourselves
brought up by a huge overhanging wall of blue ice.
This wall was no doiibt tbo upper side of a crevasse,
the lower p»irt of which had been filled by snow-drift.
Its face was honeycombed by the usual hemispheri-
cal chip2>ing8, whieJi somehow always reminds me of
the fretted walls of the Alhambra; and it was actually
hollowed out so that its upi)er edge ov..'rhuug our heads
at a height of some twenty or thirty feet ; the long
fringe of icicles vrhich adorned it had made a Blii)pery
pathway of ice at two or three feet distance from the
foot of the wall by the freezing water which diipped
from them ; and along this we crei)t, in the ho[)eK that
none of the h-icles wouTd come down bodily. The wall
seemed to thin out* and become much lower towards
our left, and Ave moved cautiously towards its lowest
point. The edge upon which we walked was itself vcry-
■uarrow, and ran dow'ii at a stcci) angle Ao the tojj of a
lower icefidl which rc2)eated the form of the U2)per. It
almost thinned out at the point vrhere the u2)X)er wall
was lowest. I^K>n this inclined ledge, however, wre
fixed the foot of our ladder. The difficulty of doing so
convenicnli^y was increased by a transverse crevasse
which here intoi'sccted the other system. The foot,
however, was fixed and rendered tqlerahly safe by
driving in firmly several of our al2)enstocks and axes
under the lowest stop. *Aimer, then, amidst great ex-
citement, wont forward to* inouut it.l Should wo still
find an imiAassuUc system of crevAses above us, or

THE JUNOFEAU^OCn

140

wro we close to the top '? A gentle hrocsco which had
boon phiyhi" alon;:; the last ledge gave me hope that
we wcTC r<*ally not far off. As Aimer reached the top
about twelve o’clock, a loud jodel gave notice to all the
party that our prospects were good. I soon followed,
aTid saw, to my great delight, a stretch of smooth white
snow, without a single crevasse, rising in a gentle
curve from our foot to the top of the col.

The people who had l)oen watching us from tie
Wengeru Alp had been tiring sal uUs all day, whenever
the idea struck them, and whtuicver we surmounted a
difticfilty, such as tlie first gieat oiuasno. We heard
tlio faint Boiind of two oi three guns as w'c rejiched
the final plateau. We shoftld, properly speaking,
have been uproariously triumjdiant over our victory.
To say the truth, our party of that summer was only
too apt trf bfeak out into undignified explosions of
animal spu'iki, bordering at times upon hVse-pla^.

I can imagine that a sentimental worshipper of the
beauties of nature would have In’en rather shocked at
the execrable jokes which excited oui; laughter in the
grandest scenery, and would have better become school-
boys than respectable college authorities. ^ There are
purists who hold that the outside limits of becoming
mirth should .be a certain decorous cheerfulness;
Milton, tlicy think, hafi indicated the tone of sentiment
appropriate to the contcmpliftion of nature by making ,
the AUetjro as si^ber as ilxSPcnfteroso ; and they would
have set us down ns boartless despisers of the charms

UO THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

of sublime scenery. 1 will not undertake our defence
at present, and only bog my readiTS to excuse us, if
they can, on the ground of that national reticence
which is so great a convenience for people who have
no sentiment to hide. Let them belie^e, or try to
believe, that we were as sensitive as ifr. lluskin him-
self to the charms of the mrmntains, and put on a
mask of outward mirth only by v\ay of concealing our
* great disposition to cry.’ At this point of our jour-
ney, however, neither emotion madii itself manifi'st.
The top of the Jungfrau-Joch comes rather like a
bathos in poetry. It rises so gently above the *’steep
ice wall, and it is so difficult to determine the i)recise
culminati)ig jioint, thkt our enthusiasm (U)zed out
gradually instead of producing a sudden explosion ;
and that instead of giving three cheors, singing ‘ God
Save the Queen,’ or obser\ing any of file 'traditional
ceremonial of a simpler gent‘ration of* travellers, we
calmly walked forwards as though wo had been cross-
ing Westminster Biidge, and on catching sight of a
small patch o4 rocks near the foot of tin* ^[onch,
rushed precipitately down to it and partook of our
third breakfast. Wliich things, like most others,
might easily be made into an allegory. The groat
dramatic moments of life are very apt to fall singu-
larly flat. Wo manage to disqpunt all their interest
lieforohand ; and are ar&azed to find that the i^ay to
which we have looked forward so long— the day, it
may be, of our marriage, or ordinmion, or eleclion

THE JUNGFEAU-JOCH

15\

to Ikj Lord Mayor — finds us curiously unconscious of
any sudden transformation and as strongly inclined to
[uosaic eating and drinking as usual. At a later
period we may 1)ecome conscious of its true significance,
and perhaps tho satisfactory conquest of this new pass
has given us more pleasure in later years than it did
at the moment. However tliat may bo, we got under
way again after a meal and a chat, our friends
Messrs. George and Moore descending tho Aletsch
glacier to the ^Eggischhorn, whose summit was already
in sight, and deceptively near in appearance. The
remainder of the party soon turned off to the left, and
ascended the snow-slopes to the gap botwfsin the
]Monuh and Trugberg. As we passed these huge
masses, rising in solitary grandeus from the centre of
one of the noblest snowy wastes of the Alps, Morgan
rehictantlj^ confessed for the first time that he knew
nothing exacljy like it in Wales. We plowghed op
in tho mid-day sun, Rubi trailing the ladder behind us
with singular ease and content. We were not sorry
to reach the top of the Mouch- Joch, and dropped dow*n
through the complicated crevasses beyond to the
Gruidelwald side. Bubi deposited his ladder at the
foot of the great icefall after thirteen Ifours’ com-
panionship ; and at nine o’clock we returned to the
Adler at Grindelwald, having mado a new and inte-
resting high-level route fronf the Wengem Alp.

(& sitting flown to Aippcr, I discovered a large *
wound in my aAkle. On exhibiting this to a medical

TEE PLA70SOUND OF EUBOPE

friend next morning, he aeked for my clasp-knife.
Extracting from it a very blont and rnsty lancet, and
observing that it \rould probably hnrt me very much,
he quietly took hold of my leg, and, as it appeared to
me, drove the aforesaid lancet right through my ankle
vrith a pleasant grin. lie then recommended me to
lie down on the sofa, and keep my foot higher than
my head. 1 obeyed his directions, and remained in
this attitude (which is rather commodious than ele-
gant) for eight conscentivu days of glorious summer
weather. 1 had tlie (doasure (through a telescope) of
seeing my friends one day on th^ Wetterhorn and
another on the Kigor. 1 read through the whole
literature of the villagp, consisting of an odd number
of the * Illustrated,^ half a * Bell’s Life,’ and Tenny-
son’s * Princess,’ about a dozen times, and occasionally
induced two faithful companions to trpteme round tin'
l^ouse m a rhniHe-^t-jmU'ura. ,

I studied with a philosophic eye the nature of that
offensive variety of the genus of pnmaleft, the common
tourist. His main specialities, as it seems to mo from
many observations, are, first and chiefly, a rooted
aversion to mountain scenery ; secondly, a total in-
capacity to ‘live without the ‘ Times ’ ; and thirdly, a
deeply-seated conviction that foreigners generally are
members of a secret society intended to extort money
on false pretences. Tlie cause of his travelling is
* wrapped in mystery. Sometimes I hnVc rcgordeit him
as a missionary intended to showJby example the

TUE JUNOFBAU.JOCH

1S^

delights of a British Sunday. Never, at least, does be
shine with such obvious complacency as when, armed
with an assortment of hymn-books and bibles, be
evicts all tbe inferior races from the dining-room of an
botel. Perhaps he is doing penance for sharp prac-
tices at home ; and offers himself up for a time to I)e
the victim of the despised native, as a trilling expia-
tion of his offences. This view is confirmed by the
spirit in wliich he visits tlie better known places of
pilgi'image. lie likes a panoramic view in iwoportion
to the number of peaks which he can couni, which, 1
take tt, is a method of telling his beads ; he is doomed
to SCO a certain number of objects, and the more he
can take in at one dost', the better. Further, he com-
forts himself for his sufferings under sublime scenery
by enjoying those conundrums in stoive— if they may
be so called ^\fich are to be found even in the moun-
tains. A rocjk that imitates the shape of thh Duke of
Wellington’s nose gives him unspeakable delight ; and
he is very fond of a place near Grindelwald whore
St. Martin is bupposed to have thruatjiis staff through
one hill and marked the opposite sloiw; by sitting down
with extreme vigour. Some kind of lingering fetish
worship is probably to bo traced in these curious ob-
servances. Although the presence of this species is
very annoying, I do not think myself justified in ad-
vocating any scheme for tlfeir extirpation, such as
leaving arsenic ibout, as Ik done by some intelligent
colonists in parallel cases, or by tempting them into

1*4 THE PLA70BOTTND OF EUSOPE

dangerouB parts of the mountains. I should be per-
fectly satisfied if they could be confined to a few penal
settlements in the less beautiful valleys. Or, at least,
let some few favoured places be sot apart for a race
who certainly are as disagreeable to other persons as
others can be to them— I mean the genuine enthusiasts,
or climbing monomaniacs.

IMilder sentiments retnrnc<l as my health im-
proved.

CHAl’TISIl VII

THE VIESCni:R-.TO( II

On tlio CM«htli flay, July 2i>, my lo" was nearly well,
and lyinf' it up in a liandkerehiof, I i-esolved to get on
to ni,^ feet onee more, and make another pass acr<»ss
the Olievland. The aaino evening four of ua (Hardy,
laveing, Morgan, and 1), irtth llie tw’O Michels,
Baumann, C. Hohreii, and Inahitit, were th(> oceu-
])antH of the Kastenfitein, a kind of burrow’ under a
big stoned tJte*foot of the Strahleck Bass. A more
glorious evening and a more lovely place for*a bivouaf
[ never saw. The long line of cliff from the Fiu-
steraarhorn to the Kiger was in front of us. At their
feet lay the vast resei’voirs of snowjifrom which the
huge (irindelwald glacier pours down right into the
meadows and corn-fields below. Looking down the
great ice-stream tlu'ough the mighty gateway whose
pillars are the J[*ligcr and the Mettelhorn, we had our
one glimpse of vegetation and habitable regions.
The fgint reflection of the Hashes of summer lightning >
sliowwl us at intervals the clear outline of the snow-
fiolds opposite, and one glimmering spark marked the

16C THE PLAYOBOUND OF EVBOPE

resting-place of some friends who were to cross the
Mdncli-Joch next day. Some discordant shrieks from
our guides made the summer night hideous, but pro-
l)ably failed to reach tlie ears of our tiext noigh))ours
at a distance of three or four miles. We cerhiiiily
heard no response, and crept into our burrow, where I
need only say that four of us were packed between a
couple of nubbly rocks, some two feet apart, and
reduced into that kind of mass which ‘ moveth alto-
gether if it move at all.’

At 4.55 next morning, very much later than was
either necessary or advisable, we were off. Crossing
the crisp surftice of level glacier beneath us, we arrived
at the foot of a serifes of snow-slopes, which rise
from the highest reach of the Grindolwald glacier to
the eastern face of the Yiescherhoru. Heen from this
side, the lesser Viescherhorn (or OehsipilhofB) rises in
a doable-headed form; the peak towards the b’in-
steraarhorn being bounded by a rounded outline, and
divided by a saddle from the sharper x^eak towai'ds the
north. Immediately below this saddle lies a com-
paratively level plain. Two or three ridges starting
from it partition off tho secondary glaciers, which
descend steeply through deep gorges to theGrindelwald
glacier. The most obvious xila>u woul4 i)crha}>H be to
ascend that glacier which starts from tho actual col,
south of the rounder xx^int of the Viescherhor^ and
between it and the Finstera&rhorn. ^ he lower part of
this glacier is, however, torn by numerous crevasses,

THE VIESCHE11.JUCU

15?

and its upper part divi<led from the col hy long and
very steep snow-slopes. We therefore preferred to
ascend at once by the first glacier whose foot we
reached, and which api)cars to form nearly a straight
line from the uluirpcr summit of the Vicschcrhoni to
the Grindelwald glacier. This glacier was itself torn
hy hugo transverse crevasses in more than one place.
We toiled slowly up it in a long line, dragging hohiud
ns a ladder, which our experience on the .lungfi'au-
Joch had induced us to lug along wilh us. The
abominable machine acted rather like the log some-
time# attached to a donkey's leg. It trailed heavily
and deeply Iwhiiul us. It of course abridged more or
loss our passage of s<»ni(' of ih<#larger crevasses. JJut
1 am intdined to think that it was{)resbed upon us by
Ihe guides rather with a view to inert used wag«*8
than to thfi aAiyil exigencies of the case. Our glacier
had a tine eastern aspect, and consciiuent^, as tlm
luorning sun struck u2)ou it, we sank deeper and
tleei)er, and toiled more wearily up its ajiparently
interminable sloiies. The ladder mi^de a deep trace
along the snow, we floundered wearily on, and the
Viesclicrhorn seemed to rise higher and higher with a
monotonous but singularly steady motion. At last we
struck into thejpath of an avtUanche, which had come
down not long before, and had eJToctually bridged
homo^ uwning crevasses. This helped us well, and at
last, after about*five hour^of toil, we found ourselves
on the little level I have mentioned. We struck

158 THE PLAYGliOUm OF EUROPE

across tlus,and cii'CumvenUng a bcrgsclirund by moans
of the ladder— the one time in the day when its absence
would really have been inconvenient — we found our-
selves, at 10.30, on a kind of snowy rib descending
directly from th<' rounded dome which forms the
southern hump of the Yieseherhorn.

Up to this point the work hod b(‘en simply a stiff
pull against the collar, with no excitement, no variety,
and very little pleasure. It was siniply plodding up
a very hot, long staircase, knee-deep in snow. Urom
this point the labour was so far changed that we
frequently had ice under our feet instead of snow ; the
guides had the additional amusement of cutting a good
many stc])s, and there, was a small amount of pleu-
hurable excitement from the fact that there was a
bare possibility of our coming down with a run. The
surface of the ice was coxered bYsno\Y iti that peculiar
state in Svhich it is sometimes found in these high
regions. It consisted of a mass of granular lumps,
like loose piles of hailstones. These i>ourod into every
footstep as it W|u> cut, as so much sand might have
done, and had to be cleared out by hand and foot
l)efore we could safely trust our weight to them. As
it was, the rope once or twice tightened unpleasantly,
and my next neighbour informed ipo that he w'as
resting upon nothing in particular, and advised me to
stand steady. 1 prcsuule, too, that it is to this^2)oint
of our journey that 1 am*to refer an incident which
Morgan has since related in thrilling terms, but which

THE V1ESCHEB.J00H

Itjp

has mysteriously escaped my memory. 1 fear it was
part of that queer iucrustatiou of legend which gathers
so rapidly round genuine historical narrative. He
says that we were exhausted with our labour, parched
with the reflected heat of the sun, and toiling kneu-
doep in snow up the steepest part of the sloj)e. Guides
and travellers were alike faint— frequently pausing
for breath, and at times half incluied to give up their
toilsome enterprise. A holt took place— we wcie
undecided whether to advance or retire — the critical
moiuont was come. Suddenly Horgau raised his
\oice, and dashed into one of the inspiring vongs of
his native land. As the notes struck our ears, fresh
Aigour seemed to come into«our muscles. With a
ununimuus cry of * Forwards ! ’ we rushed on, and in
a lit of enthusiasm gained the top of the pass. 1 am
content with at^ting as a fact that, somehow or other,
we toiled n^^ the dreary slopes, and at hist fouipl
ourselves at the point where the snow-rib loses itself
in the rounded knob of the Viescherhorn.

dust at this moment a cloud, which had been
gathering along the ridge, became overcharged. A
bright flash of lightning seemed to singe our beards,
whilst a simultaneous roar of thunder erllckled along
the valley. A^violeut hailstorm rattled down, blinding
and bewildering us. It was imppssibk* to catch a
glim^ise of our routo. AVe Scooped some big holes in
the snow with our axes, ^d cowered down in them to
get some shelter. My hands were in that miserable

^ THE PLAYOliOqim OF EUJtOPE

condition vhen the more v^elnently I rnbbcd them,
the vroUer and colder and more nuin1>ed they seemed
to grow. The hail got in at the back of my nock ;
the cold wind froze my nose ; the snow got into my
boots and up my trousers, and iillod my pockets. Wo
helplessly waited for a change ; and 1 have reason to
suppose that my intellei'ts were more than nsnally
obscured. Certainly kfr. Ball has been compelled to
state in bis admirable Gmdr, iha,t he cannot understand
my description of the geograiihy ; and be charitably at-
tributes my ^lerplexity to the storm which here assailed
us. 1 must admit that 1 do not quite understand the
doocription myself; and now that eight years have
elapsed since I saw the scene of our adventure, the
details have certaiLly not become clearer. The only
comfort is that, as nobody has been foolish enough to
follow our stei>s, no great harm can have been done,
iiitorm-b^ten, stupefied, and sulky, we c]v>uched in the
snow-drift till the storm lulled, and we jumped up to
look round us. Wo might curve towards onr left, or
in a southerly dhectiou, round the great knob of the
Yiescherhorn, so as to get on to the col. This would,
as wc saw afterwards, have been the right way. It
involved, however, some more step-cutting. We there-
fore went ^ound in the other direction^ and at 2 r.M.
got upon the saddle betwei>n the two points of the
Viescherhorii. From tlfis point it wtis oljvioui|^ that
we could descend ujion the tipper level of the Viescher
glacier. Accordingly, without further investigation,

THE ri^60SEB-J0CH

lA

we crept slowly down a sleep but short slope of snow
and rock to a point where wo could easily surmount
a threatening bergschrund, let ourselves down over it,
and found ourselves on the upper level of the Viescher
glacier. A tedious but not difficult scries of manoeuvres
placed ns at the foot of the crevasses by which the
upper part of the glacier is intersected, at about three
o’clock. Our detour over the saddle of the Viescher-
horn had cost us a considerable amount of uimecessary
trouble. Our difficulties were, however, now all over.
We had made a pass, uliich, of all the passes 1 know,
is cerftiinly one <if the most w'earisome. A very long
monotonous pull up a very steep bloi)e of snow, with
only the variation of sometime^ having to cut steps
and sometimes not, is apt to be slupid. The views
were of course grand, and the black rocks of the
Bchreckhotn Idbked down iqK>n as witli ajnajestic
assertion of their dignity. I cannot, however, describe*
the scenery of the Vieschergrat Pass as especially in-
teresting. Perhaps I am biassed by our subsequent
career. •

We were now on known ground. Nothing but a
level stretch of glacier intervened between qs and the
ordinary route to the Finstoraarhom or Oberaar- Joch.
The J^ggischhow) inn began to paint itself distinctly
to our imaginatious. But I could not help remem-
bering,that we w^'re hardly likely to reach the ^g-
gischhom before dark; and there are few Alpine
travellers in whose minds darkness on the /Eggisch-

M

f62

THE PLAYOSOUND OF EUROPE

horn is not associated with weariness and vexation of
spirit. I therefore strongly objected to any un-
necessary halts, and after taking a standing meal and
contemptuously abandoning our ladder to the tender
mercies of the glacier, we started at a rapid pace for
our inuch-dosired haven. We left the Griinhomliicke
on our right, struck into the Oberaar- Joeli route, passed
the wilderness of boulders and mossy slopes, where a
few wretched sheox) pick up a mysterious existence
above the Viescher glacier, descended the well-known
waterfall) &>ud after a laxnd march found ourselves at
7.80 at the point where the stream from the Mkrjelcn
See descends beneath the ice close to a few isolated
huts. We were all father tired. We were disi>osed
to look upon our ^ay’s work as done, and wo hardly
relished another climb. Still we were afraid to take
the lower path to the iEggischhoiif ahd preferred
'ascending the stream to the Mnrjelen*Alp, hox)ing to
find natives there if it should be too dark to succeed in
seeing the path to the inn. Wc climbed wearily and
slowly upwards, halting to take an occasional pull at
the stream and to imbibe certain remnants of brandy,
trraduallg it became dark. We were guided chielly
by the sound of the rushing water on our left. Every
form of Mountain and rock had beceme indistinct in
the twilight, aird then been blotted out in a drizzling
mistl' The stream seemed to be filing froip an in-
definite height out of absolute darkness, and the path
refused obstinnh*! y to Ixmd over into the little plain by

THE VIE8CHER-J0CH

the lake. Wc might be climbing right up to the top
of the grat, when at length we reached a small
hummock of rock, on wliich was planted something
like a wooden cross. Wo hulU>d undecidedly and
looked round. Nothing but a mixture of mist and
night was to be seen. Some one raised a despairing
jodel on the chance that we wore near the ch&lets. No
answer. Another louder yell, in which we all joined ;
silence again, and then, to our intense delight, some-
thing like a faint reply. A general yell now produced
a singular phenomenon. A faint spark appeared at
an infleiinite distance, indistinctly glistening (hiough
the dri/./ile. The spark gi-ow larger, began to move,
and presently came rushing in it straight line tow'urds
us. On approaching, a boy was discovered attached to
one end of a flaming piece of xiino wood. He had come
on our crittff frciu the Miu'jelen Alx>, and guided us back
to it at 9 o’clock, a distance of two or three hundred*
yards. This piece of luck raised our spirits. We soon
became valiant over warm milk and bread, and having
thus unexpectedly changed our prospect of lodging in
damp rhododendron beds for the certainty of dry straw
undera roof, began to thinkwhethcr better tl^gs might
not be done. Should we try to reach the Jilggischhom ?
The guides unaDimously pooh-poohed the idea. Livc-
ing, who had been rather unwell a day or two before,
signified his opinion by taking off his boots and lying
composedly down on the regulation mixture of hay and
fleas. I was for giving in to the majority ; but the

i64

THE PLAYOBOVED OF EUliOPE

strongest and most obstinate member of the party
showed at once his courage and the uncompromising
vigour of his appetite by hihisting upon making a dash
for supper at the .TUggisehhorn. A little diplomacy
was therefore used. Certain hints at fi\o francs pro-
duced an obvious willingness on the part of the small
■Will-o’-the-wisp to go in any direction we might
please to mention. The guides grumbled emphatically.
A variety of judicious appeals to their skill, and our
extreme confidence in it, at last induced them to take a
more favom*able view of the case. The construction of
a lantern out of an empty buttle and a candle removed
one obji'ction which had been strongly urged. The right
plan, 1 may reniai'k, is to strike out the bottom of the
bottle and to insert the candle through the neck with
the wick foremost. The glass of the bottle then forms
a toleraj^ly satisfai-tory screen. k% afi additional and
(as it proved) more effective source of* light, the boy
constructed a torch by splitting one end of a large
piece of wood with an axe, and inserting splinters of
wood into thc^ splits. These when lighted made a
grand blaze, and w'e all started at 10 v.m. in high
spirits forttlie inn. Livoing, animated by our examide,
sprang up and accompanied us.

For a time all went right cnouglh The torch led
the van, and tUe lantern brought up tho rear. We
climbed the crest of the hill leading towards the
^ggischhorn rapidly and successfully. <Wc shall
have supper before 11 o’clock,* said Hardy. Presently

THE VIKSCIIElt-JOCH ICC

tho torch wont out. It was soon relighted, and \vc
were off again. Soon, however, our progress, which
had been sti'aight forward, seemed to me to be rather
wandering. ‘ We have just misled the path,’ the hoy
explained, * hut we shall have it again directly.’ It
soon became rather doubtful, however, whether wo
wer<‘ not looking for it in the wrong direction. Shortly
afterwards a discussion arose whether the narrow gully
w hich we w t iv, di hccialing was not the very one we had
come up ten minutes licfore. During the discussion
the l(»rch wdit out. In attempting to relight it we
])ut tho eaiulle out. Then all the matches were wet
thrr)ugh, and it was not till we had hunted to the
bottom of SOUK one's knapsack 4hat we found any that
aoubl work. At last we succteded: and, to sate
trouble, I may say that this process of extinction of
all our ^Jlo^^ed by their laborious rekindling,

went on at eoytiniially shorter intervals till Wfe seemed
to be hitting down longer than we were wralking.
Meanwliile the senreh for tho missing path seemed
tvery mumout more hopeless. After scrambling up
and down, and rottnd and roau<l for a long time, we
found ourselves in a disconsolate and bewildered state
of mind, standing on a damp ledgoof grass at the foot
of a big rock staling vacantly into blank darkness.
Whether to go up or down, or right or left, we knew
no more than if we had been ilUddeuly dropped into tlie
middle of the gr&it Saliarif. There was only one thing
for it. We took our knapsacks and put on our remain*

K6 THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

ing articles of dress, o.g. two pairs of socks, au extra
pair of trousers, a flannel shirt, a waistcojit, and a dozen
paper shirt-collars, and crouched down under the rock,
hoping that the wind w'onld keep in tho right quarhir,
that the puddle in which wo were sittutg w'ould bo
speedily absorbed, and that tho sun would get up as
early as possible. Tho guides made some very sarcastic
remarks, in very broad patois, about gentlemen who
wouldn’t take advice, and I refrained from allusions
to supper. The boy who had attempted to guide us
had meanwhile vanished mysteriously into the depths
of the night. At this instant, just as 1 hud dravin iny
second pair of trousers over my second flannel shirt,
he suddenly emerged from the dark, exclaiming, ‘ I’ve
found a man ! ’ If struck me as a bewildering and
improbable circumstance that any othei human being
should be fool enough to be within reach ofnis ; and I
did not ^t first appreciate tho fact that he was refer-
ring to a stone man or cairn, marking the route to the
^ggischhom. It was just twelve as he made the an-
nouncement, and in a few seconds the whole party was
under way again, not even halting to lake off the
extra apparel. A dreary and a dismal walk we had.
In front was the hoy with the torch. At short in-
tervals halts had to be called, to coax th.' said torch by
various means into renewed activity. In the intervals
between these halts, I, being about fift Ji in tho liijp, was
only conscious of the torch as a kind of halo spreading
out a very short way and very mistily on either side of

THH VlEHCllEiUoClI

1(£7

certain black budien, whicb Obcitlatcd strangely bct^^ec^
me and it. From tlicne black masHos occasionally pro-
ceeded sounds expressive of revolutionary sentiments
about bills and stones in general, and the jl'lggischhorn
in particular. My radius of vision ineludcd about a
yard of bill, inclining at a very steep angle to my left,
scattered with mjsterions objects, wbicb generally
turned out to be deep boles when I thought they were
stones, and very unsteady and sharp-edged stones when
1 thought they were puddles. It is a well-known fact
that the ^Kggischhoin consists of innumerable shoul-
dersaso «i ranged that you suppose every succes‘'ive one
as you come to it to he th<' last, and find out when
you hav(‘ turned it that it is oily an insignificant unit
in the multitude. 1 base often l)ten made practically
aware of this fact, but never was it so painfully uu-
pressed upon ^ne us from 12 to 2.:i0 on tbe morning
of July ao, l^r»2. Stumbling, groaning, slipping, ai^d
pulling up short 0M‘r stone.s, puddles, slippery grass,
and every variety of pitfall, including cows, wc pushed
wearily on, and about 2.80 beeiwne conscious that we
were in a thing that called itself a path. A few
minutes at a quicker pace, and the ^ggischhorn inii
appeared. At 2.40 a,m. a wild )’ell from* four weary,
liungr}', and ^lirsty travellers roused M. Wellig to ct
sense of his duties, and by 8 o’clock the said ti*avellcrs
were^aalecp, with two good battles of champagne inside
them.

1G8

TifjE

jPLAYaSOUNJ) OF EUltOPE

CHAPTER VIII

THE COE DEiiS HinONDELEES

A QTTEEE sensation which soiuotimes conios over me
on the sight of some familiar Alpine view may l)OBt be
illustrated by a literary parallel. In reading <some
genuine old English dramatist, I have been temx>ted
toi»exclaim, Wliat doe« this fellow mean by imitating
Lamb’s ‘John 'Woodvill,’ or Taylor’s ‘Philip Van
Arteveldc’? Why doesn’t ho see the absurdity of
mimicking a man who was his juniojp by, two cen-
fjjuiea ? iHis local colouring i.< the same, if it is not
quite so obtrusive, as that of our moilernBllizabothnus.
In the same way the view from ihe Wengern Alp,
or the Gomergrat, or the Montan vert strikes me as
little better than a xdagiarism. Have we not seen
the very same design used over and over again for
the lids of ftarved boxes, and worked to death by the
artists of those pictures with blue glaciers, and white
peaks, and melodramatic chamois which stare at ns
from every shop- window «n Interlaken or Chamonix ?

‘Why should the eternal Alps enter ihto rivalry with
wich puerile i)or£ormances ? In no place have I been

THE aOL DBS UIItONDELLEa lOJ

niuru frequently seduced into tkis whimsical inversion
of logic than at the Montanvert. The Montanvert,
in fact, is, with the possible exception of the Wen-
gern Alp, the most cockney-ridden of all the well-
known points of view. Within a few hundred yards
of the inn lies a monument which strikingly illus-
trates this truth, and which, 1 fear, hardly receives
from members of this club the attention which it
deserves. Oii the old moraine, just above the ])lace
where the solemn echoes of the mountains arc waked
for the sum of ten centimes, lies an ancient gray
stonoi on which are carved the names of Pocock
and Windhatn. Some Old Mortality of the district
app<‘ars to have preserved this inscription which
marks the bivouac of the first British tourists
130 years ago. ila\ing surmounted the peril of the
ascent t<i Clupnonix, these primitive adventurers,
whose memory should surely be dear to us, succeedetl
in scaling the ^fontanvert, and doubtless felt that
they had well earned their night’s rest beneath the
now historical block. Perhaps the Alpine Club might
do worst', in case of lu'cessity, than apply a few francs
towards the preservation of this memorial of their
ancestors’ heroism. Another inscription •commemo-
rative of tourist enthusiasm never aroused ray con-
scious attention, often as tny t'yes ipust have rested
upon it, until this summer. All who have made expedi- ^
tions from the kfontanvert^remember that queer little
octagonal edifice opposite tlie door of the inn, which

d70

THE rLAYGliOVND OF EUBOVE

seems to be a compromise k't^vecn a stable, a kitchen,
and a sleeping-room f(»r the gnidos. Here, 1 liave
sometimes fancied, were held the private sittings of
the Everlasting Club conimcmorated in the * Sjje^-
tator.* I have never, at least, looked in at any hour
of day or night without seeing a guide seated by the
fire — eating, drinking, or smoking with stolid persis-
tency, and generally conspicnous for that air of ex-
treme personal comfort which is only produced by the
consciousness tliat you are kcf'ping somebody waiting.
The impatience which is naturally produced in the
mind of an external observer had, I presume, hitherto
prevented me from noticing that above the door are
engraved the words, A la Nature. In fact, the build-
ing w'as erected by a prefect (jf some half-century
ago, who indulged in the good old-fashioned senti-
mentalism of the Itousscau sch(M»I,||^id devised this
4’athcr fagan edifice for the benefit, of his fellow-
creatures. Then it was probably an almost solitary
example of a building intended for theac<*om]uodatiun
of Alpine sightjieers. Since that day, two or three
generations of tourists must have gased fi omits doors
up the ice-stream of the Mer de Glace, and admired
the great iSlock of the Geant and the Jorasses framed
so symmetrically between the gigantic portals of the
Cbarmoz and tlvi Yerto. The view has indeed become
BO familiar that almoA every Alpine travellj|r, and
many travellers who hav^ never been to the Alps,
could draw a recognisable outline of its main features

THE COL LES IIIIIOEDELLES

17f

with their eyes shut. The Alpine Club, 1 doubt
not, is as familiar with its details as with a well-
known passage beginning ‘ Dearly beloved brethren ; ’
and, as the statement lhat * the Seripiurc moveth us
in sundry places ’ sometimes reaches their ears with-
otxt exciting a very vivid emotion, so the eye glances
along the well-known ridges without setting up any
conscious train of reflection. To some such cause, at
least, I must attribute the really curious fact, that up
to the year 1873 nobody had yet attempted one of the
most conspicuous passes in the wdiole range of the
Alps.* The gi'and block of the Jewassts is abruptly
cut away, as wo all know, at its northern end, and
llu*nc(‘ to the wild labyrinth ridges which culmi-
nates in the Aiguille do LecbaiulT ther(‘ stretches a
level Siiddle, over which, as is obvious to the meanest
cai»acity, •thersi.must lie a route to t’ourmayeur.
Indeed it woubl be the natural route for* anybody
intending to cross the Col du (.leant by the light of
nature. If you would make a bee-line from the Mont-
nnvert to the nearest i)oints of the* Italian valleys,
your route w«tuld take j’on straight across this col,
which is as obtrusive as the Theodule from Zermatt,
or the Jungfrau- Joch from the Wengern Alp. The
apparent stee]«)ess of the iuial barrier indeed was
forbidding ; hut in an ascent of the \It. Mallet, which
I had^nadc a cc|||iple of years previously, we had gone
near enough to see that* this appearance, as in so
many other cases, promised to be illusory. M. Loppe

A7*2 THIS PL AYG HOUND OF EUROPE

was especially impressed by the view, and had fre-
quently suggested to me the proxirioty of an assault
when arranging the ))lans of coming campaigns. Tlio
discussion assumed fresh prominence during certain
tobacco parliaments held in the beginning of July last
in front of Couttet’s inn at Chamonix. It took a
practical turn on the arrival of Messrs. T. S. Kennedy
and J. (}. Marshall, who contemplated the same expe-
dition, and brought two excellent guides, Johann
Fischer of Meiruigen, and Ulrich Aimer, son of tiie
hero of Grindulwald. Kennedy and Afarshall had
already acquired useful information by examining the
col from the other side, and were eager to add this to
their previous conquests. Loiq)e was naturally keen
about the bist paSs of really lirst-rate excell(>nce in
the district which may fairly be called his own. For
ray part, 1 have long abandoned difl^qplt and danger-
ous expeditions, ^loreover, I was at, Chamonix in
the interesting character of invalid. I was suffering
from a state of mind and body which wives and
mothers genert^ly attribute to overwork, and which
one’s masculine friends consider as a pronounced
attack of idleness. Whatever the origin of my symp-
toms, 1 took a course which I can strongly commtind
to all my hearers. 1 consulted ^ distinguished
physician who his great medical skill adds the
^ special merit of being a* member of the Alpine Club.
He prescribed- less to mj* surprise Aian to my satis-
faction— ^Alpine air and indolence The last phrase

THE COL 1)E8 HIB0NDELLB8

11^

I to include moderate walking exercise, and,
though abjuring anything 1)ordering uxxm tlic per-
formance of athletic feats, I felt mywlf at liberty to
a<'comiiany my friemds in tin* bumble character of
bistoriogi'iipla-r, >\ith lilierty to turn l)ack if tlie
dangev or the fatigue should imm* excessive.

And so it came to irnss that once more 1 was
sleeping at the Montanvert, on the night of Sinulay,
July 13. The weather was so questionable that I had
dela^'cd my departm'c till the last jioshibb* moment.
Throughout the early summer ue had a series of
thun?lerstonns, tin* temperature, lowered by each
storm, gradually becoming almost unl>earahly hot,
till we were relie\ed by another explosion. On this
oe<'asion a slorui had just jiassed, but as Loppe and 1
climbed the will-known Montanvert ])ath in the late
evening, the li^iivy i»iue branches were still dripping
with moistufe, and an occasional tlmiftlor-growl
muttered amongst the distant ranges. I had tlu‘re-
forc turned in with some doubts as to the next day’s
weather. .V hapx\v faculty of sleei)ii^g soon lU'oduced
utter oblivion, though my couch was little softer than
Pocock and Windham’s stone. .What i»assed for a
Jiiattress seemed rather to la* a cylindrical bolster of
abnormal bareness, ami reminded me of that dummy
which Jack the (liant-killer placod ,iu his bed in one
of hjp adventures; as it vfbuld have been only too^
well calculated to withstafiid the most vicious blows of
nn infuriated llUntderbore. 1 see that I am inevitably

^74 THE PLAYGEOUNL OF EUROPE

falling into the old groove. I am treating my readers
to the thousand and first description of the dis-
comforts of bad beds. My only excuse is, that the
grievance is as lasting as the grumbling. The Mont-
anvert inn is a disgrace to the district. The com-
mune of Chamonix receives, I am told, a rent of some
500Z. a year for this dirty, tumbledown, old hovel,
which has received no improvement or addition since
it was first erected. The number of visitors must
have multiplied tenfold, but the accommodation is
strictly stationary, and the prices steadily advaircing.
This phenomenon is quite in accordance witti the
laws of iM)litical economy. Monoi»oly, whether of
railways or iunkeepe^is, is fatal to the comfoi’ls of
travellers. To complain is probably mere waste of
ink ; and yet one would fain hope that the good
people of Chamonix may be impressed in the course
of a generation or two witli the conviction that better
accommodation on so celebrated a point of view
would provide an excellent investment for some of
their spare capital. In Switzerland the Montanvort
would have been rebuilt and enlarged a dozen times
over ; and the example of their enterprising neigh-
bours shotfid })C set before these good stolid Cha-
mouniards as vigorously as possible. ^Meanwhile, in
spite of dirt, discomfort, a s({ualid bedroom, and a
close atmosphere, I wa9 sleeping peacefully on the
* early morning of the 14Ah, lapped in some dim
conscionsness that I had still an hour and a half

THE COL DBS HIE0NDELLE8

175

before the inevitable hour of starting, when a sten-
torian voire resonnded through the house- -‘Ohe!
la-bas ! Aufstelien ! Garvou ! get up ! ’ were some
of the fragmentary utterances which rang like a
trumpet through my dreams ; and led me to realise
the fact that my young friend Marshall, boiling over
witli the impetuosity of youth, was resolved to avoid
any danger of oversleeping by premature vocifera-
tion. Some wretched tourists, it was true, were be-
ginning to fortify themselvi-s by a few hours’ repose
for the toils of an expedition to th<i Jardin. They
mus* tak<! tho conscqu< iices of venturing into the
haunts of the enthusiastic climbers, and speedily they
had a Ihely uccoinpanimeut blithe \»»eal um.sic pluj^id
on the ])laiikh by a pair of sturdy hobnailed bouts.
Lulled by this music, I endeavoured to compose
myself cjpee yiore to lest by carefully extending
myself alon^ that granite column which played the
part of mattress. Alas! my efforts were in vain.
The voice became more emphatic.

Htill it rri)><1 * SK'cp no morel ’ to all tli( house ;

Martiliall hath inuiileriHl sloop ; and Uieroforo IiOpp6

Shall sli ep no nuno; Stephen ^hall sloop no inoie.

Kay, if I am not mistaken, a personal apfUication was
given to some of the more energetic remonstrances ;
and, finnlly, I found myself doziuj? over the usual
fragiycnta of dry hroJid aaul tepid coffi'o, and en-
deavouring, according to*a principle which I observe*
with undeviating punctuality, to shirk all responsi-

<76

THE PLAYGliOVNV OF EFBOPE

bilifcy in the matter of ordering provisions or other*
ivise arranging for a start. Still drowsy and dull, I
turned out about throo o’clock into the drowsy night.
The prospect was e(|nivocal. Torn fragments of
vapour floated aitiilehsly alun-e the valleys and clus-
tered in long streamers upon the mountain sides.
The pyramid of the Aiguille Yorte was nearly hidden ;
on the opposite side, the Aiguille dc> ('bormoz appeared,
as it were, in a ragged dressing-gown, resembling the
costume of Mr. I’ickwick’s companions in the Fleet
Prison. A luaudlin kind of monster it seemed, appa-
rently reeling homewards from some debauch'* in a
general state of intellectual haziness. One huge
finger — well known to all buyers of ]>hotographs and
coloured drawings 'for the last fifty years— was held
up, pointing, with a muddled significance, towards
the hi'avens. Doubtless some s\)rt of/ueaning might
hirk in that intoxicated gesture ; but 1 aht no diviner
of omens. Athether the old Charmoz intended an
encouragement or a warning was to me an imi)ene-
trable secret. I '-rhaps, too, luy langiu^^c is rather
profane. The mountain, gleaming in thu dim moon-
light through the veil of mist, and revealing that
strange pinnacle of rock which, as I have seen it from
a nearer pouit, is one of the most daripg of mountain
spires, should have excited awe rather than unseemly
^familiarity. I do not ^ofess, however, to have my
emotions at command ; solemn objects sometimes fail
to create in me that ‘ great disposition to cry ’ which

TSE OOL DBS HIltONDELLES

177*

is ‘the beepming mode of testifying sensibility to
natural beauty. Moreover, I have a spite against
the Gharmoz. I tried to climb him a few weeks after-
wards, and his scarped cliffs foiled our best efforts ;
and, therefore, 1 take the liberty, not unprecedented
under such circumstances, of attacking the character
of a mountain which has shown itself too hard for
me. We hud soon turned our backs on the Gharmoz,
and, as we advanced, two facts became evident : the
sunrise was healthy, giving promise at least of a
tolerable day ; and the pace speedily threatened to be
tremeadous. Our party was of heterogt'iieous com-
[)(*sition. Kvperience was rciwesented by the elder
travellers, and youthful preci|)fltauee by our friend
Marsliall. Youth accordingly set otft, ui spite of sage
warnings, at a brisk rate, and W'as soon leaping cre-
^ asses in a,playhil spirit far ahead of creeping age.
Jl.id wo been upited we might have succeeded*in siii>- ■
pressing this uudignilied impetuosity ; but the guides,
as well as thoir employers, were divided. Loppe and
I had ongoged Jleuri Devouassuud, a ypunger brother
of the well-known Franpois. Now, Uenri— and I am
glad to make the remark in view of some recent
criticisms upon Ghamonix guides is a strong, willing,
and pleasant fellow, though not, as I judge, more than
second-rate as a leader of a party. Jle caught the
uoutagi^u from Marshall, and was willing to show
his Oberland companions ttiat a Ghamonix guide
could make the rnuuiug. Accordingly, wo crossed the

M

178

TUE PLAYQltOUND OF EUBOFE

glacier at a pace which brought us to the foot of the
final bergschrond in little over three hours. It is, I
am aware, contrary to all rules of Alpine writing to
reach a bergschrund so early in the narrative of the
expedition. But 1 have a sufficient apology. It is as
easy to get to tliis bergschrund as to reach the
Jardin — as easy as another process which I need not
particularly mention, and the facility of which needs
no demonstration to an audience of travellers by pro-
fession. There is simply a gently sloping snow-
plain to cross, where the few crevasses could be
turned by trifling deviations from our route; and
thus our only mentionable adventure was the inevi-
table quarrel w'ith the porter from the Montauvert,
who asked mord for going part of the way to the
Jardin from the inn than he would have received,
according to the tariff, for going th^ whole way from
' Chamdliix and back, kforeover, I api not going to
let my hearers off too easily. For here I must insert
a brief digression whilst we are eating our breakfast
and spcculativg upon the best line of assault. A day
or two before we had committed the usual folly of an
('xplorin^ exi)edition. It had the normal fate of such
2)erformances. We had climbed to nearly our present
]}OBition and had thence watched^a noble bank of
l)oiling cloud, which effectually screened from sight
every detail of our j^roposed route. One incident,
however, deserves fuUer*commemoration. As we be-
gan to climb the snow-slopes we observed at a little

TUE COL LKS HIH0NDELLE8 m’

distance ahead certain mysterious objects arranged
with curious symmetry in a circle upon the p;lacier.
Some twenty black spots lay absolutely motionless
before us ; and as we approached we bccauie aware of
their nature, and not, as 1 will venture to add, with*
out a certain feeling of sadness. In fact, we had
before us a proof of the terrible i)Ower with which
tempests sometimes rage in these upper regions. The
twenty objects were corpses — not human corpses,
which, indeed, would in some sense have been less
surprising. As a melancholy accident has lately
shown? man may easily l>e done to death hy the icy
winds which have such terrible pow’cr in these c.\posed
wastes of snow. But the ikhw little bodies which lay
before us were the mortal remains of swallows. IIow'
it eainc to pass that the little company had been
stnick down so unublenly as their position seemed to
indJeato gave luatter for reflection. Ten minutes’*
flight with those strong winds would have brought
them to the shelter of the Chamoniv forests, or have
taken them across the luountain wall t« the congenial
climato of Italy. Whether the birds iiad gathered
together for warmth, or been stupefied so si^ldenly by
the blasts as to be slain at once in a body, there
they were, united in death, and looking, I confess,
strangely pathetic in the midst of thd snowy wilder-
ness. 1 mention jt hero, not merely because none of
us had met with such an incident before, but also for
another purpose. Wo proposed at the time to give

'180

THE rLAYaaOX^Xl) OF EVliOPE

to our pass the name of the Col dcs Tliromlelles,
which may be justified by the precedent of the Adlcr-
Joch at Zermatt. First discoverers have, I believe,
a right to christen their passes; but, unluckily or
otherwise, it is one of those rights whicli is not very
valuable, because it cannot be tnforced. If future
travellers choose to call the pass the Col des Jorasscs,
or the Ool de Lechand, wo cannot exact any jumalty
from them. So far, however, as our authority is
recognised, I beg to state that we in all due form
passed a resolutiun declaring that henceforth the col
which I am about to describe should be known* to all
whom it concerns by the sole style and title of the
Col lies Iliromlelles. • And having thus done ni\ duty
to the su allows, and given satisfaction, as I hope, to
such souls as Mr. Darwin and the Thirty-nine Articles
may allow them to iwssess, I will return ta the norra-
• tive of «Tur adventures. «

As I have already said, a precipitous wall strctclu s
northwards from the foot of the Jorasses. On the
French side it^onsists chiefly of rock ; on the Italian
it is covered by the wild Glacier de Freboutzie. As
we appro^hed it we recognised various routes, each
of which appeared at times to be easy, and then agn-in
put on an appearance of inaccessibility from some
different point «f view. Close to the Jorasses there
descends a broad couloir of ice, cr(^wncd by % wall of
serac, as to which it is slill a matter of controversy
whether it ever does or does not discharge avalanches.

THE COL DES niUONDELLKS

181 •

I cannot decide the point, not having made the uecee-
sary observations ; but I may briefly say that anyone
^vho likes to risk these possibly non-existent ava-
lanches might probably shorten his route to the
summit. It would, perhaps, be possible, moreover,
to roach the top of the col by climbing the lower rocks
of the Jorasses, and so keeping entirely to the right,
or south, of the great couloir. To the left, or north,
there is a long rocky a all, seamed by deep narrow
couloirs of much smaller dimensions, occasionally
varied by steep snow-sloi>es, by scarped surfaces of
rock, ftnd by huge ribs which descend steeply from
the summit and are more or less cut off at their lower
oxtromitios. More than one it)atc might, perhaps,
b«‘ discovered amongst them. Ouf attention, how-
e\er, was fixed upon the ridge which bounded the
great ooubiir iu^mediately to the north, and upon a
very deep andjiarrow couloir, which again lidb imme-*
diately to the north of the ridge. This last couloir
was flllod with snow at the time of our iiassage, and,
as seen from the Moutanvert, appeared to us like a
bright white thread. The snow, howeTOr, frequently
disapiiears, and the whole wall then seems to be little
more than a mass of rock. To be clear, 1 shall call
this narrow coqloir the chimney, and I may proceed
to describe our assault. •

Th% chimnoy ojM>ns out At its Ipwer end, and is
lost in the main Bloi>e abbvo the bergsehrund. At
6.‘i5 wo attacked this natural fosse with the usual

(182

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

gymnastics. They involved no particular difficulty,
and 1 only bad to complain of a decided propensity of
the rope to get itself entangled in my hat. The said
hat, having shrunk, was easily knocked off my head,
and the fact that I was constantly struggling to
preserve it against the skilful assaults of the rope
may show that the lino of ascent was tolerably steep.
For a time, however, the climb was perfectly easy.
Digging our feet into soft but tenacious snow, wo
speedily reached the chimney and found it in good
condition. The snow-bed which lined it enabled us '
to climb hand over hand without a check for< some
considerable distance. But by degrees, Fischer, who
was leading, became nervous. He has a prejudice, in
which I admit that 1 share, against stones bigger and
harder than the human bead, and subject entirely to
the force of gravitation. Lopi^i, who u always loudly
proclaiming bis own extreme prudeneq — it is his pet
virtue, and the only one u^Mn which he prides him-
self—is a sceptic in the matter of stones. Whether
he has confid> nco in the strength of his skull, or a
ffiith in his capacity for iHiing missed, I cannot say.
However, ho assured us emphatically that stones
would not Yall, or if they did fall, would not hurt us.
Deaf to these arguments — 1 call them arguments for
want of a betb'r.word — Fischer insisted u^mn leaving
the chimney and climbing the rib between oiyrselves
and the great couloir. Arid hence arose a division of
the party, and a certain amount of emulation, though

THE COL DE8 HIBONDELLES

188.

no want of cordiality. Whilst Loppe and Devouas*
soud as representatives of Chamonix stuck to the
chimney like men, wo effected a flanking; movement
on to the rib. Now, as all climbers know, these
transverse performances, which, if I may say it,
take a raoimtain across the grain, are apt to lead to
difficulties. For about fifty yards we had, what
seemed to me, a really naaty bit of climbing. The
rocks were powdered with a layer of snow, sufficiently
deep to aggravate seriously the difficulties due to
their rottenness and irregularity. I will not pre*
sumo* to say that the consequence of this was any
real difficulty. Objectively speaking the rocks may
have been easy; subjectively •considered 1 heartily
condemned them. A different word hius been used in
some translations from the Creek. At any raU', 1
was reduced to a state of mind of which many travel-
lers have nev^r been conscious ; that is to say, I go(
so far as the incipient stage of a resolution never to
trust my precious neck (the word precious, again, is
used in a subjective sense) in discovering new Alpine
passes. One or two positions, distinctly imprinted
upon my memory, could be easily represented by Mr.
Whymper’s pencil, but are not so easily translatable
into language. Nor, indeed, is it worth while to tell
the old story over again. The discopteut incident to
preca)2^U8 scrambling was aiggravatod by the sight of
Loppe and Devouassoud oKmbing their chimney with
groat ease and rapidity and greatly gaining upon us

Ji84 THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

in height. Soon, however, the tables were .turned.
Once on the backbone of the ridge wo had the Ixist of
it. In fact all difficulty was over, aiul we moved at
breathless speed towards the top. Fischer ^\as
escited, and felt that his reputation was more or loss '
at stake. Wo were bound to be first on the top, lest
those rerruchte Francosen — the name, I deeply regret
to say, which he applied to our excellent friends in
the chimney — should langh at our beards. We saw,
indeed, and the sight was balm to our souls, that they
had left the chimney on the opposite side, and were
pressing, with some difficulty, up a steep snow^slrtpe
which led tliem to a point considerably to the north of
that at which we were ahnhig. It brought them,
however, to the other side of a great knob )nhi<'h here
crowns the ridge, and we were therefore invisible to
each other during the last few hnndrt^d feeU. All the
jaore w'ectrained every nerve to reach t,h(» top : and n
new cause increased our anxiety. 1 had ]Hdntod o\tl
to Kennedy the beauty of certain light clouds which
were drifting o\er the col from Italy, and tinged by
prismatic colours as they came alxive our heads.
Unluckily they came thicker and deeper. As we
reached thh snow-mound on the sunimit-ridgo we
wore enveloped in a liglit vapour which effectually
hid from ns the grand precipices of the Jorasses, and,
for a time, concealed all hut the snows in onr ^mme*
*diate neighbourhood. We* raised a sliout, partly of
self-applause and partly as a challenge to our rivals.

THE COL DE8 HIRONDELLES 18§

Had we reached the top first ? I have an opinion
upon that subject, and it is one which 1 think 1 could
support by sufficiently conclusive facta, f will add,
however, that nu persuasion, short of absolute phy-
sical torture, shall induce me to reveal it even to
this Club, which has the first right to my confidence.
Far bo it from me to give the slightest sanction, direct
or indu'eot, to any apirit of rivalry between clim1>ers.
Racing in the Alps is an utter abomination, and I
have never been guilty of such a crime : except,
indeed, oik'O in an ascent of Mont Rlanc, and again,

1 feat, in a dash up the iEggischhorn, and yet once
or twice luoro on some of the 01*orland peaks, and
perhaps im a few other occasions which I decline to
mention more particularly at th<f present moment.
Rut luy principles are g(H)d if my »’onduct is occasion-
ally iucottbisteyt. And therefore, uilhout throwing
any light u{)pn the <]uestion, 1 will merely remark
that our party reached the summit about nine : haring
thus occu])ioil a little over two hours in climbing the
last rocks. I should guess their height very roughly
at some 1,‘2(>0 feet ; and, as the process involvwl
some step-entting, and the passage of the berg-
schrund, it will bo seen that no serious difficulties were
encountered. ,1 will add further, that though our col
was the point which would naturally be selected from
the l^ench side, the desedht upon the Italian sidc^
was probably easier froifi Loppe’s. The difference,
however, is trifiing.

t

wo THE PLAYOBOnyD OF EUROPE

To lie on the summit of a new and firBt*rate
pass is a pleasure which, in the nature of thingo, can
be but rarely enjoyed. Our spirits were naturally
exuberant. What was it to us that imagination in-
stead of bodily eyesight had to picture the butt-end
of the lion-like mass of the Jorasses, the wild sea of
unfrequented peaks towards the Lechaud and Triolet,
the long vista down which the Mer de (llace flows to
the Chamonix Valley, and the purple kills towards
the St. Bernard ? If to us it makes little difference,
it clearly makes less to my hearers, except that it
saves them a passage of description which they can
imagine for themselves quite as easily as W'C imagined
the view. They may take it for granted, t>)0, that wo
were hilarious, excited, full of fellow-feeling, aAid very
much inclined to such sky-larking aa can be indulged
uix)n a glacier. And 1 may add, that, the sky-larking
was of a Very superior order. A momqjitary rent in
the clouds had revealed the green valley floor of the
Yal Ferret, some 7,000 feet below us, and showed,
too, the right w^y to roach it. From our feet the
grand glacier, strongly rebcmbling the npp(>r part of
the Yicscher-kirn below the Monch-Joch, hurled itself
madly dowilwards from the mighty cirque of cliffs.
It was a glacier of a rollicking spirit, given to plunge
in broad curves pver hidden ridges of rock ; playing
^all kinds of practical jokbs with grotesque mas^s of
serac ; sometimes allowing fts to indulge in a glissade
where we bad expected to be cut off by an ico*cliff.

THE COL niiS IIJJtONIiELLKS Ifg

and Eometimes playfully opening a large crevasse
beneath our feet, and forcing us to take a flying leap
which was decidedly more convenient from above
than it would have been from below. It was a grand
hight to see the heavy weights of tlie party hesitating
for a few moments above some such chasm, and then
come flying through the air with the swoop of an
eagle and the grace of a coalsack. It was delicious to
go head over heels in a huge bank of knee-deep snow,
and fl'cl that tlie further you fell the more trouble you
saved. Without a suigle serious check we rushed at
the tjymnagtiqu^ from the foot of the first snow-
slope, which was a little too steep to bo trifled with,
to the i)oint where wo had to leave the glacier. And
it is only necessary to say, for a r<tle to our followers,
that they will not go far wrong if they keep as much
to the loft AS possible during the descent. The know-
ledge acquired by Kennedy's party on their former
exiHidition was of material service to us in discover-
ing the prt‘cis«* route to be followed. The Ctlacier de
Kreboutzie it»elf falls over cliffs tbr()ugh which it is
impossible to find a way. But, by crossing the ice
which descends from the Aiguille de Lcchaud, just
above the point where the torrent burstl forth in a
waterfall, a lofty patch of grass is reached on the
northern side of the lateral valley^ Thence to the
flour yf the Val Ferret theit) is a rather troublesome^
walk. It is necessary to find a passage through some
slippery rocks, and when at their base to cross a

168

THE PLAYOSOUND OF EVBOPE

re^on covered with huge loose stones, which appear
to be the ruins of a gigantic moraine. For half an
hour, I should think, we wore risking sprained ankles
across this detestable wilderness; but safety and
luxury were at the other end. It was a delicious
walk that afternoon down to Gourinuyonr. Delicious
was the milk which an old woman brought from a
ehiUet in return for a franc, volunteering a bene-
volent blessing into the bargain. Delicious, too,
was the rest under a clump (tf fragrant pines, ren-
dered still more fragrant by our fumigation, on the
edge of the Hooded meadows. And meat delicious
was the view of the soft Yal d’ Aosta which ojH'ned
upon us as we rounded the Mont Haxc, and saw tlie
group of inferior* moimtains round Courmayeur,
whose graceful forms and rich hues announce their
Italian character. With all my love /or tlm sterner
scenery of tlie hither side of the Alps, and my dread
of demoralisation in the lazy atmospluTo of the
South, 1 cannot deny that Courmayeur is one of tlie
very most cxqujsite of all Alpine scenes. J felt
friendly towards the good-natured Italian bathing
guests, who stared at their uncouth visitors from the
ice-world as their classical ancestors might have
stared at a newly-caught Briton. Ev^n that noble
creature who rejok*pd in the costume of our operatic
/)andit by way of tribute the general spirit vf the
place, was pleasant in m^ eyes; for was not his
presence suggestive of g(Mjd inns, where wo' might

THE COL Dim IlIRONDELLES

luxuriate in some comfort, and with less interruption
from coekncydoin than at Chamonix ? The next day
was siient as the day after a grtmd expedition should
always l>e spent - in chewing the cud of oiur recollec-
tions whilst loun{;iD<' about the lovely Courmayeur
meadows. 'NVo lay in the sun in company with
buskin}; lizards, alternately watching the idiotic
])ranks of the grasshoppers, who are always taking
the ra<»8t violent and purposekss exercise in the
iniddlo of the day. and siH'culating on the possibility
of making a direct escalade of M<)nt Blanc by the
v>ntliern buttress. That feat still wail"! f'^ir a per-
former. Loppe and 1 returned nevt da.’i to (‘hamouni
by the (’ol du Chant, arriving at about the same
turn* with the telegram which w’e*lmd dispatched on
our arri\al at C’ourinayeju'.

And •now it only remains for m<* to give an im-
partial estiupite. of the merits of our }mss. alts heigi^t
is not marked uihmi the French map, and I can only
conjecture that it is approximately the same as that
of the Col du (Scant. Comparing it^with that king of
passes, [ may say, in the first place, that it would
probably occupy a j’nther longer time on an average.
Six hours brought us from IMontanvori* to the sum*
niit, and six more took us to the inn at Courmayeur.
The first six might have to be indejjnitely extended in
unf^ourable conditions of the snow. 1 du not ihink^
with some of our part}^ that wo were uxceptioually
lucky in this respect. I am rather inclined to the

THE PLAYOliOUND OF EVliOPK

opinion that the now snow bothered us on the rocks
more than it helped us in the chimney. This is a
matter on which subsequent experience must decide.
The climb, however, of the last ridge will always
present greater difficulties than any part of the Col dn
G6ant route, unless, indeed, it should happen that the
passage through the seracs of the Geant, now so easy,
should again become troublesome. On the Italian side,
again, the Col dcs Hirondclles, though not exception*
ally bad, lies over a very contorted glacier, and may
at times be toilsome, especially in the ascent. It, of
course, will require more labour than th(‘ delightful
walk over the Mont Frety to the Col du Geant. On
the whole, therefore, «ur pass will probably be the
more laborious or the two. Comparing them in
regard to scenery, I fear that there can be but one
re^dy. The Col du Geant is and mast^aluay^ rimnin
ope of tha first two or three, if not actuitlly the first,
in beauty of all Alpine iiasses. The partiality of new'
discoverers has set up rivals to it at one time or
another; but its grandeur and variety are always
fresh, and nowhere, in ray knowledge, to be fairly
equalled. The view towards Italy, the magnificent
view of Mofit Blanc, the grand basin of the up^ier
glacier, the icefall, still noble in its ^cay, may be
separately equallq^ elsewhere; but I do not think
that any pass, even in the Oberland or at Zerpaatt,
presents so marvellous a combination. The Col des
Hiroudelles, shut in by the Jorasses, must have but a

THE COL DES UIItONDBLLES 10).

limited prospect, if any, of the great peaks. To my
mind, its great charm is in the ^d Glacier de Frc-
boutzic, which is the perfection of savage seclosion.
I always love those recesses of the great chasm, where
the spints that haunt solitudes have not yet been
finally exorcised. Centuries will elapse at our present
rate of progress before the Freboutzie will become a
sightseer’s glacier, and iierhaps by that time jt will be
a glacier no more. All that I can fairly claim, how-
ever, for our new pass is that it may afford a useful
alternative to the Col du Geant ; but it is eminently
Ix'aittiful, though decidedly inferior to its sniierlatively
beautiful rival, ^foreover, no true Alpine traveller
can look at it firoiu the ^kfontanvert without wishing
to cross it. If he docs, it is ray Idst warning to him
that the descent ttiwords Italy, easy enough when the
right wuiV is known, requires some local knowledge or
careful steering. May our successors have as good
fortune as fell to oiu: lot in this as in all other
reapiH'ts ! If so, 1 have no fear that they will be un-
grateful to the fortunate discoverers^ of tliis, amongst
the most familiar of all great Alpine passes as part
of a view, though the last to be recognised as a
practicable route. *

THE PLAYOEOUND OF EUliOPE

V>‘2

CHAPTER IX

THE BATHS OF SANTA CATARINA

On a bright day in the aniamu of 1800 1 was standing
on the balcon}’ of a wrell-known inn near the baths of
St. Moritz. A little proco^sion of ladies and gentlemen
issued from the hotel and descended the slopes towards
the banks of the lake. ,1 immediately became aware —
I know not whetho» from jMsitive infonnation or from
some instinctive sense of reverence — that for the first
time in my life I was standing in presence of ^ genuine
kmg. Au emperor 1 have seen iH'fof’C, and 1 have
more than once taken oif my hat to the queen of these
islands. But a king is now a rarity, and 1 was pro*
portionately delighted with the opiMjrtunity of dis-
charging in my *own jxThon the functions of a Court
Circular. His majesty, 1 might say on my own
authority, accompanied by his royal consort, and
attended by the lords and ladies in waiting, took the
recreation of a walk on the banks of tfio Lake of St.
Moritz. Yet a certain dcop of bitterness mingled in
\ny cup, and it was intensified by an incident which
took place that evening. I was confronted at sapper

TSB BATHS OF SANTA CATAItINA 199

by a person belonging to a class unfortunately not so
rare as that of royal personages. The genuine British
coclcney in all his terrors was before mo. The windows
of the dining>rooin oi)cne<l upon all the soft beauty of
a quiet Alpine valley in a summer evening. Far above
us the snow-olud range of tho> Pain and Bernina still
glowed with the last rays of the setting sun. But the ,
cockney was not softened by its influence, and he
talked in full i^crfoction the language of his native
streets. Ho elaborately discussed the badness of t{ic
liquors provided for us. Ho tasted some of the bottle
which 1 had ordered, and was peacefully consiuning,
and condescended to inform me that it was ‘ devilish
bad.' lie went into the meriflii of all the inns which
had had tlio henellt of his patronage, discriminated
with great clearnc.sH between tlie qualities of the Cognac
which they provided ; and showed his 8U2>eriority as a
Briton by coudemning them all with various^egrees of
severity, with tbo e\eei)tioii of one whoso landlord had
been wa'ts r at a givat London hotel, and had thereby
attained u coinparati\u degree of civilisation, lie
thought it proiK'r lo add a few remarks upon the
scenery of the country, extracted with more or less
fldelity from Murray or Biedeker ; and 1 know not
whether his scf thetical or his practical remarks were
the most significant of delicate sensibility. Anyhovr,
two hours of his conversation were enough for xa%
nerves, and I retired to iSeditatc on things in general
and the beauty of tho evening. One conclusion

^94 TEE l*L \YaiiOnND OF EVllOPE

* l»

became abundantly clear to me. Kings and cockneys, I
thought, muy bo excellent people in their way. I lovo
cockneys because they are inv neighbours, and the
love of our neighbour is a Ciiristiiin duty, I revei e
kings because 1 was taught to do so al school, to say
nothing of the sermons and church .ser\ices in uhich
the same duty was impressed. Ihit tlu‘y ha\e in
common the property of being \ory ohjectionahh*
neighbours at an hotel. They raise prices and de-
stroy solitude, and make an Alpin<‘ valley pretty
nearly as noisy and irritating to the noives as St.
James’s. Was it worth wliile to tra\el somj> hundred
miles to find one’s self still in the vi'ry thick of civili-
sation? Kings, ^ knSw, ha\o to traMd tsometim«>s
against their will), and so must cocloieys. if it !«•
right, ANhich I admit to be an open question, that
cither class should continue to exists and'certainly
ito long as they exist, I have no right to demand their
expulsion from the Engadine. Indeed, on second
thoughts, it is perh.aps as w« 11 that they should go
there. The gregarious in.stinct ha.s doubtless be<n
implanted in the breast of lh(‘ c(>mmon}>l.ice travelh*r
for a uibc pprpose. It is true that it lead-) migratory
herds to spoil and trample under foot some of the
loveliest of Alpine regions, such as«(^hamonix or

Interlaken. But,* on the other hand, it draws them

•

together into a limited number of districts, and !bav(<s
vast regions untrcHlden and unspoilt on either side
of the l»oaten tracks. St. iforii/ aeis like one of

THE BATHS OF SANTA C4TABINA 195*

those flytraps to be seen in old-fashioned inns,
which do not indeed diminish the swarm of intrusive
insects, but profess at least to confine them to one
spot. And if any district were to be selected into
which the cocknoyism of the surrounding Alps might
be drained as into a res<>rvoir, certainly no botti'r
selection could be made than St. Moritz. The upper
\ alley of the Inn is one of the very few Alpine distritds
w'hich may almost bo called ugly. The high bleak
level tract, with monotonous ranges of pine forests at
a uniform slope, has as little of the picturesque as can
well b*o contrived in the mountains. Kven in the
great })eaks there is a singular want of those daring
and graceful forms, those spires, and domes, and
pinnacles, which give Mirkly and beauty to the other
great movintain masses. 1 Khould rejoice if it could
be made intoNorSolk Island of the Alps, and ajj kings,
cocknejh, perscais travelling ^^itb eonriers, Aumricans
doing I'iuroiM) against time, Cook’s tourists and their
like, eommon'ial ti*avcllers, and cs])(‘cially that variety
of Kuglish clergyman whi<'b travels in Aazzling white
ties and forces church services upon 3'ou by violence
in remote country inns, could l)e confined witliin it to
amuse or annoy each other, ^ilcanwhile, though iliis
l)olicy has not been carried out, it is gratifying that a
spontaneous process of natiural selecfion has done
something of the kind. Like^llios to like ; the cockney
element aceumulatos like the precious metal in the
lodes of rich mines ; and homo magnificent nuggets

♦196

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

may be found in and about Bt. Moritz ; but luckily at
no great distance may be found regions as bare of
cockneys as a certain Wheal something or other of
my (too close) acquaintance appears to be of copper.

A day's journey, 1 knew, would take us into regions
still in all the freshness of their primitive innocence ;
regions where the ‘ Times * is never seen, where English
is heard as rarely as Sanskrit, and where the native
herdsman who offers milk to the weary traveller
refuses to take coin in exchange for it. As 1 thouglit
of these things 1 njoiced that we could leave Bl.
Moritz behind us, and fly to a certain haven of* refuge.

I almost hesitate to reveal the name of the hiding*
place to which wo ‘retreated. Shall I not in some
degree be accessory to the intrusion of some detach*
ment from that army of British travellers which is
forcing its wlcntlcss way into every hole and comer
« of the Country ? Will not some futnee wanderer take
up his parable against me and denounce this pa])cr as
amongst the first trifling hints which raised the hluice.s
and let the putside world into this little paradise?
My reluctance, however, is overpowered by certain
weighty reasons. As, first, I cannot hope that my
voice will attract the notice of any great number of
persons ; secondly, my readers, tl)pugh few, will of
coarse be amongst the select, whose presence will be
a blessing rather thhn a curse to the inhabitants;
thirdly, the inhabitant! would, 1 am sure, be grateful
for an advertisement, and I should be glad to do them

TEE BATES OF SANTA CATARINA Urt

a trifling service, even though, in my judgment, of
doubtful value ; fourthly, if any appreciable number
of Britons should take the hint, they will at least bring
with them one benefit, which cannot be reckoned as
inconsiderable, namely, a freer use of the tub and
scrubbing-brush; and, considering that the insinuation
conveyed in the last sentence would in itself be suffi-
cient to hold many p(‘rsons at a distance, I will take
courage and avow that the place of which I have been
speaking is Santa Catarina, near Bormio. Tluther, in
two days’ I'asy travelling from St. Moritz, wo conveyed
oursfilves and our baggage, and to it 1 pro^iosc to
devote a few pages of rather desultory remark. I
cannot do all that would be required from the compiler
of a handbook ; 1 know little of the waters consumed
by the gucsts, except that they have a nasty taste at
their first outbreak, but are good to drink with indif-
ferent wine ; ,uor am 1 great at orographical Ar geologi-
cal nr botanical disquisitions ; btit are not these things
written in the admirable guide-book of Mr. Ball ? and,
finally, if one person should be induced by the perusal
--but the formula is something musty.

[ must beg my readers to imagine an Alpine
meadow, a mile or two in diameter, level *as a cricket
fh'ld, covered yrith tho velvet turf of a mountain pas-
turage, and looking exiiuisitely soft and tender to eyes
woarifid with the long dusty valley which stretches^
from tho Lake of Como to*the foot of tho Stelvio. Let
him place a few chalets upon whose timbers age has

198 THE PLAYGROUND OF EUEOPE

conferred a rich brown hue, at picturesque intervals,
and then enclose the whole with mighty mountain
walls to keep the profane vulgar at a distance. On
two sides purple forests of pine rise steeply from the
meadow floor and meet a littlo way below the inn
to form the steep gorge tlu’ough which the glacier
torrent foams downwards to join the Adda at Bormio.
In front the glen is closed by a sterper inountsiin,
whose lower 8loi)es are too rough and broken to admit
of continuous fort'st. Above them rise bare and pre-
cipitous rocks, aud from the platform thus formed
there soars into the air one of the most graceful of
onow-pcaks, called the Tre.sero. It resembles strongly
the still nobler pyraipld of the Wc'isshorn, as seen
from the lliffel at*iiormatt. It is certainly not com-
parable in majesty with that most majestic of moun-
tains ; as indeed it falls short of it in height by some
thri-o or /our tltousand feet. One aifiantage it nuiy
perhaps claim even above so redoubtable a rival : the
Weisshorn only reveals its full beauties to those who
have climbed to a considerable heiglit above the
ordinary limits of habitation, whereas the Troscro con-
descends to exhibit itself even to the least adventurous
of tourists. * it is, indued, like all other great moun-
tains, more lovely when contemplated from something
like a level with itself. Lofty Alps, like lofty charac-
teis, require for their du»appi’cciation some elcyation
the spectator. One of the most perfect moments in
which I have ever caught a shore of the true moun-

THE BATHS OF SAiA:A CATAltlS'A 19£^

tain spirit was when looking at the Trescro from a
high shelf on the opposite range. The immediate
forogroimd was formed by a little tarn, covered in
groat part with the white tufts of the cotton grass,
dancing as merrily in the evening breeze as Words-
w'orth’s notorious daffodils. Two massive ribs of rock
de.sceudiug on each side, like Oatchedicam and the
‘ huge nnmeless peak ’ embracing the lied Tarn on
Hi lvollyn, formed a kind of framework to the picture.
Tn front, the whole intervening space was tilled by the
towering cone of the Tresero, with torn glaciers
strea*uing from its sides, and glowing with the inde-
scribable colours of sunset on (‘ternal snow. The per-
ti'ct cahniiess of an Alpine evening, with not a sound
but the tinkling of cattle-bells belcM', gave a certain
harmony to the pie1urc,and breathed tho very essence
of repose.^ The domestic quiet of linglish fields iu an

autumn evi’iiiuj* is impres^ve and S(M)thing;,but there

• •

is something far more impressive to my mind iu the
reiiose of one of theb<' great Alps, which shows in every
rock and contorted glacier that clings to its sides the
soverity of its habit nul struggle wiCli the elements.
It is the repose of a soldier resting in the midst of a
battle,— not tlint of a stolid farmer smoking his even-
ing pipe after a supper of fat bacon. Seen, however,
from any point of vi<‘W, and under any circumstances,
whether under a clear sky^or when a tlumderstorm
is gathering under the lee of its grand cliffs, th^
Trescro is a lovely object. At Santa Catarina it

900 a’Hfi PL^r0itOXfNJD op mubopp

• ' *

uataraUy forma the centre of every view, or aervea aa
a charming background to the more diminutive but
hardly leaa ^quiaite picturea ^hich a traveller may
diacovmr in every nook and corner of the Alpa.

To complete the portrait of Santa Catarina, 1 muab
add one, and, it must be admitted, a very important'
element in the view. We are constantly assured in
an advertisement which has lately been apx>eaiing that
the finest scenery in the world is improved hy a good
hotel in the foreground. There is some truth in the
aphorism ; and I shall certainly not seek to dispute its
application in the present case. I must thorefoA; adk
the reader to place on the edge of a flat meadow a
long low building of rongh stone, resembling a barrack
more than an hdtel. Outside there is nothing very
attractive ; and within there are certain difficulties to
be overcome by a fastidious taste. The estahlishmeut
)ias a certain dishevelled and perplexed aspect, not
exactly in harmony with Hjnglish notions of order.
There is an unorganised crowd of persons, male and
female, who app*^ more or less to discharge the duty
of waiters and chambernq^ids. One*is occasionally
tripped up by a stumbling-block'''on the stairs com*
posed of an*ovorwearied woman, who has fallen asleep
whilst accidentally blacking a miscellaneous boot.
The scrubbing qf floors seems to be trusted to the
occasional zeal of volunteers, and the zeal requires
some prompting from sorref^titious bribes. A garment
entrusted to the washerwoman has to be recovered a

, THE BATES OF SANTA fiATjlBINA m

«

*

yteek afterwards by a jourfiey of discovery throu^
cerjiain mystcrions subterraneous passages. If you
warn a dish, the best plan is to go into the kitchen,
where amongst a crowd of smokers and kHersyoumay
be able to 'enter into conversation with the cook. The
Jandlord as a general rule is round the corner with a
cigar in his mouth talking to a friend. Were it not
thjit the. head waiter is a man of genius, the whole
management of the business would be in danger of
collapse, kloreover, to hint at a delicate iioint, you
may probably be seated at dinner opposite to a lady or
gentleman of xnimitive costume, whose ideas on the
rcBi)ective uses of knives, lingers, and forks arc totally
opposed to all the usages current in the jxilite society
of London. Neither, I am bound tcTconfess, is Santa
Catarina a comxdeto excexition to a highly general rule
that the visitors to baths arc not amongst the most
congenial of companions. Yet the remark reminds
mo of one groat compensation. Neither guests nor
inhabitants are English. If they were they would
nearly be intolerable. Nor does (his i)roposition,
when rightly dnderstood, imply any want of proper
patriotism. An EAfi^ishmau is, of course, the first of
created beings; and he owes this pre*$mineuce in
great degree to^his remarkable powers of self>aasertion.
As an Italian visitor informed me, the great motto of
the English race is ‘ Sclfllf ’ - a mysterious word,^
which, after some investi^tion, I discovered to bo the
Italian version of the title of Bmiles’s book * Self-

)02

THJ: PLAYahoUND OF niJROPK

Ilelp.’ Now ‘ sdolf ’ means the power and the will of
treading on any toes that are in your way. Aa a
corollary from this it follows- that an English snob is
the most offensive of snobs, English dirt the most ob-
trusive of dirt, and, in short, everything bad that is
English, about the most objectionable of its kind to be
found in Europe. Had those Icnifophagous persons
who sat opposite mo at dinner been of English extrac-
tion they would have been actheiy as well as pas-
sively offen8i\e. Indeed 1 think it highly probable
that thi‘y would have gone so far as to speak to me.
An inn with floors as Ignorant of the broosn as
those in fianta Oatarina would in England have im-
plied a defiance of iiU deceuey. The house would
have roscniblod "^ine described in a lat<‘ lawsuit in
London where a witness swore to having mot live bugs
csihnly walking downstairs abreast- I had Uilmostsaid
p.nu in ai*m -and where, if I remcm*bey rightly, tlu'
fleas sat on the chairs and barked at you. The food
in such a case would have b(‘cn calculated to try the
digestion nf an ostrich ; and the landlord would have
been a cross between a prizefighter and a thimble-
rigger. But Italian dirt, though unpleasant, is not of
that lutcoulpromising character. It is the product,
not of a brutal revolt against decency ,Jmt of an easy-
going indolence,, It is, as Heine somewhere says,
‘ gros8artig(‘r Schmutz.’* The squalor of an Jtalian
town surrounds monumenfs of incomparable beauty,
and somehow docs not seenr altogether out of harmony

THE JLiTHS OF SAITTA CATiEINA

with them. It is of a different order from the hopeless
filtli which agrees only too well with the unspeakable
ugliness of a bm'k slum in London. Like the dirt
which obscures some mastequeco in painling, one fears
to see it removed, lest soap and water too energetically
used should remove something more than the supc r-
fluous coating of matter out of place, and reveal a
raw glaring surface, untouched by the mellowing in-
llueuce of time, and fit rather for Bom<‘ rau“hroom city
in America than for an ancient building snu lling —
only too literally — of history. And thus the dirt of
iscinta Catarina is not incompatible with many (‘\-
ct'llencu's. The food, for e.xami)le, which issues from
that singular kitchen, with its ^rrowds of uuoceuiaed
loungers, is of unimpeachable quality ."T^he servants are
externally grubby, but ha\e always a pleasant auhwex
to deman<|s which to them must appear unreasonable,
and are willing fb do their best to satisfy ihi<*‘s(lelf
fill Englishman. .\nd mixed with guest- of strangely
uncouth ajipearance are many of whose relmeracnt
and kindliness wo shall always retain a grateful re-
collection.

Here, indeed, occurs a problem which, I fear, must
be abandoned us insoluble. No philosophicnl account
has yet been given of national differences of character,
and it is hard fo prommneo positively upon the rival
merits of types so different a*tho linglish and Italian.
The Briton drops in uiioii the guests at such an
estahlishmont and looks upon them with wondering

c

«04 THE PLAY&SOVND OF EUBOPE

contempt. He is not improbably a member of the
Alpine Club. His patron saints arc Snussnre and
Balmat. His delight is to wander all day amidst rocks
and snow ; to come as near breaking his neck as h’s
conscience will allow, and after consuming a Homeric
meal, to smoke his evening pipe and retire for a short
sleep before another start. The Italian appears to
pa&s his day in elaborate indolence. lie walks half a
mile, till the hill begins to rise, and then bits down and
bubks through the sunny day. His most vigorous
exercise is a short game of bowls after dinner, and hu
passes his evening dancing, or getting up lotteries, or
listening to an impromptu concert, or, for to such a
height did the revels vise on one occasion, in playing
blindman’s buff. lie is a sociable being, and does not
glower at his fellows with the proper Britisli air, which
means, to all appearance. You may ^o to any place in
•this w’oi!(d or the next sooner than I .will touch you
with a pair of tongs. Which is the best type of man*
kind? Personally I confess, that though I would
fain be cosmopplitan, 1 prefer my felluw*countrymcn.
After the most vigorous efforts to be properly cynical
us to muscular Christianity, or the more common
disease of ‘‘muscularity, pure and simple, I have a
sneaking but ineradicable belief in tl)p virtues of the
scrambling Briton. He shares some of that quality
which, in consequence ‘of somo strange theological
notions, we generally deScribo as * devil.’ That it
should be complimentary to a man in common par*

THE BATHS OF BaJtA CATABINA, 20i

lanec to say that he has plenty of the Evil One in his
disposition is a curious circumstance, and shows, it
may bo, how easily we come to the old heathen sub-
stratum by scratching the modem surface. Perhaps
our opinion of the devil is rather better than might
be gathered from sermons. We sympathise with the
true hero of ‘ Paradise Lost," and think that he would .
make a very useful ally, if he could be persuaded to
desert his party. lie was certainly not wanting in
tlio spirit of ‘ selt'lf.’ But, at any rate, 1 confess to a
liking for my restless and unreasonable compatriots,
whiftever bo the proper name of the quality to which
their vigour is o\Ying. I admit, however, that much
is to be said on the other side ; and 1 should despair
of impressing my opinions uiam nffhds of a different
cast. Not far from Santa Catarina is an object which
impressed upon me, in a far wider w>nse, the widtJi of
the gulf which* intervenes between our own and certain
foreign modes of thought. It is a jdtMsaut practice in
those regions to collect the Ixmes of the dead to afford
an edifying six'ctacle to jiosterity. ^ But I have never
seen, nor do I wish to see, anything comparable to the
ossuary in the neighbouring nllage of !:>t. Antonio.
There is the usual pile of l)one8 and grinning skulls
outside of t^o parish church. In the midst of them
stand two inexpressibly ghastly skeletons with the
rct^nants of flesh still clihging to the bones— a si^t
to ^urn one sick at tbib time and to revisit one in
dreams. It ajipears to be a superstition that the

f

*06 'CUE rLAYGItOUND OF EUUOPE

l)odics of those who die on Christmas Day never
decompose ; and the loathsome objects which confront
the villagers of St. Antonio arc intended, it seems, as
practical cvomplificatious of this truth. 1 can only
say that it is too obvious, either that the legend is
mistaken, or that the persons exhibited died on somes
other day. ife would be a bold man who should pro-
l)ose to a Lritish vestry to erect a couple of bodits of
defunct parishioners by the side of a church door.
Yet it would be easy to make nut some kind of argu-
ment for the practice. Our nerves, it might bo said,
ore unduK delicate, and our tastes too sipieamish.
"VVe don’t want to see dt'ud bodi(‘S opiwsitc St. James’s
Clinrch in Piccadilly, Ifht that is because modern life
is d(‘Void of seriousness. How could one more forcibly
impress iqMm the mind of the boefy shopkeeper or
plethoric fanner the truths that all iles^i is gi^iss, that
ii>th<> midst of life we tu'c' ui death, and other well-
worn platitudes, than by exhibiling in all its horrois
the loathsfmie spectacle of a slowly wasting mummy ?
We may preach fi^r hours the soh'mn truths, us we are
pleased to call tluun, of human liability to decay, but
live minut(>s opiK)sitc a mouldering dead body every
moniiug would enable tts to pierce thick hides im-
peiK-trahle by the shafts of our rhetoric^ Is not the
l)owor of eontemi)kting such objects, * Ix'twccn th<'
wjnd and our nobility,’ eofiuoctcd with the faet<hat
religion sc< ms to tiie-in sometfiingniueh mon* living in
ail Aljiine valley than it dues in the Hnglish lowlands?

«

Tim li\THS OF fJANTA CATAItlSA 207*

Tho little ('Impel at Santa (.’.itoiina was seldom without
ti devout wovshijiper, telling his or her Ix-ads with
irauu'iiso eaniestuuss, and apimn-ntly h('lie\in;' that it
would really do soitu' hind of pood ; perhaps make tht*
cows produce more milk, or hriiip down more rain
in apitt' of a risinp liaro!iiet(‘r. The Jlrilitih farmer, as
we know, goea to clnircli a.s h(' j)ays his rates, and
when ho has heard the parson ‘ Imniminp away like a
huzzard-clock ovt'r his head,’ thinks ho has said* what
he owt to a’ said,’ and comes away not apin-eeiably
the better or the worse, flight nol a body f>r a skull
or twrf do him a little gocal, and wring from him some
meditations after the fashion of llnmlet on Yorick ?
We havt' become so philosophicat and refined fhal our
national religion has rather lost its sat our. A rantc r
may touch the lu'arts of his audience by a plentiful
use of helhlire; hut how is tho well-dre^st•d parwui,
who aspires to«have a laste. who reads thi' ‘ {'fldurday •
Ifeview,’ and knows that hell-iire is a metaphorical
evpression, to provide food highly 8])ice(l enough for
such robust digestions? Would nol si(.»me good ma-
terial images - pielures of sotils writhing in purgatory,
bloodstained tTueit^^es, and actual bones and bodies,
do something to point his |K*riods ? Sluggish imagi-
nations re(|uir<5, strong stimulants ; and if the one
object bo to tickle an insensiiivo ]mlate, I don't know
that tl» prescription emploj'^d at St. Antonio may ,
not ho a very good one. Hccplics, ind(H,'d, may doubt
how' far such religious ohsor\anccs help to olevato the

(Sm THE ELArdBOUND OF EUBOPE

understanding or to refine the imagination ; urhether
prayers addressed under such influences are much
better than a charm, or the worship of the Virgin a
very great improvement upon that of the old tutelary
deity of the valley. Religion gives birth not to en>
nobling art but to ghastly images of a morbid asceti-
cism ; but the Church has probably a firmer hold on
the minds of believers still in the intellectual stage,
which cherishes such ideas, and, of course, they had
better remain in it as long as may be.

When staying as tourists in sudi a district, we
realise the vast interval by which we are removed
from the minds of the people. We talk to them os we
might talk for half an hour to some medisDval ghost —
just long enough to discover that we are as it were
non-conductmg mediums to each other. The thought
which bhoxild bo conveyed from one mind across th
, electrictchain of conversation is traiisformod by eonic-
tliing more than actual defects of language. In a sense
we might make acquaintance with some of the natives ;
we might know how many cows they kept, at what
time they rose and went to bed, and what they had for
dinner. But to know anything of them — to see the
world thrbugh their eyes and understand what it looks
like when considered as centering in an Italian valley
with a bathing, establishment, two or three churches,
and a certain number of bodies and crncifixeri, as the
main objects of interest — ^was of course impossihle.
We are all two-legged creatures capable of consuming

TBE BATHS OF SANTA CATABINA 200

beefateak or pqlent^, and, as avo' generally told,
possessing a certain conmiun element of human
nature; but bet\rcen \arietics of the same species
indistinguishable to the scientific eye, there may be
an invisible wall of separation sufficient to intercept
any real exchange of sympathy. Now that we are
separated by hundreds of miles from the Santa Cata*
rinians, it is hard to think of the mountains as pos-
sessing moro reality than the scenes of a theatre, or
of the peasants as anything but the snpernmucraries
w’howere hired to put on appropriate costume') for the
occasion. Perhaps they ha\o now changed their
dresses and arc meeting ns as^cabraeu, beggars, or
first, second, and third citisens in Vindoii streets.
At any rate they played tlieir parts well, and acted
like Arcadians of genuine kindliness and simplicity.
The practibc of l^paving half a brick at the htjul of a
stranger would be considered as decided rudeness,
instead of an obvious mode of extracting amuse-
ment from their visitors. One would ratliev wonder
at the natural courtesy which they displayed, were
it not that it is only in certain British districts that
the obvious reply to ‘ (4oo<l day ’ is, ‘ You be damned.’

I have perhaps strayed rather widely from Santa
Catarina, but the irnturo of the population amongst
which wo are living is, after all, a Inatter of some
interest* even to the most superficial and cursory of
tourists~among8t whom I reckon myself. In Switz-
erland the gulf between you and your fellow-men is

*210 TIIK PLAYQIiOrrND OF liVFOPE

not so vrido originally and lias boon more nearly tilled
up. Tlie Swiss, unliko their neighbours, are living in
the nineteenth century. Tliey have travelled on rail*
ways, they understand addition and subtraction, and
ran mnke out bills to perfection. They have some
notion of the use of a tnb, and many of them dimly
perceive that the ultimate end of man is to climb snow
(leaks. Moreover, a kind of human amalgam has b(>on
formed by the steady intiltral ion of lirilish tourists ;
there are guides, inukoeperh, and other jiarasitiral
growths, which, it must be admitted, discharge many
useful fimctions. It is (deasant, for a change)!' to be
amongst a more primitive race, and to be able to
introduce intojhe btickground of a sketcdi a genuine
crucifix, or a peasant with some ronuius of a national
costume. The very contrast of national characteristics
makes such surroundings agiecable foratiiiie, andonr
Italian companions were agreeable, from the rough
shepherds, who had brought their flocks of lop-(*ar(‘d
Itomau-nosed sheep from distant valleys, up to the
intelligent and cultivated gentleman who studied
Mr. Sniilos's works, and quoted Byron with surprising
fluency. ^To him, indeed, the dead bodies would pro-
bably have be(‘ti as amazing phenomena us to ourselves,
but though the higher classes approach each other in
all civilised countries, his ideas were yet sufTicienily
diflerent from our own* to make a contrast pleasant, at
least to us.

There was, indeed, one point on which we could

TIJK BATHS OF SANTA CATAlilKA 214

Jill It was dcsiral>lc to sec something of the

beauties of Uic exquisite scenery around us, but of
how much to sec, and how to f?ec it, different views
miglit.he taken. Travellers, like idants, may be
divided according to the sones which they reach. In
the highest region, the English climber —an animal
whose instincts and jioculiarilics are pretty well known
is by far tht> most abuiKhuii genua. Lower down
comes a region where he is mixed with a crowd of
industrious Germans, jind Ji few sijoradic examples of
adventurous ladies jjinl d<‘t(‘rmined sightsej'rs. Below
this i% th(' luxuriant gismlh of the domestic tourist in
all his amaaing and intricate varieties. Each of them
nmy tlourish at Simla (‘ntarhuf, thoiij?h perhaps it is
best adajjted for the mid<lle class. It would afford
ample illustnitions to the treatise which ought to be
written ot» the true mo«le of enjoying the Alps. One
amu.^emcnt sltpuld bi- common to Jill ; every oJle should*
have daxs devoted to men* objccllc'.s and indolent
lojiling. To the more adventurous, such days offer
thiit happiness which Dr. Johnson’s fi;jend disciw'red,
when he wished to be a Jew in order to combine the
pleasure of eating p«u’k xvith the excitement of sinning.
It is delightful to lie on one’s back on a glorious day,
to watch tile gl^'iiming snow-line against the cloudless
sky, and to say. If I was doing my linty, I should bo
toilingrtip a slippery ice stauftaso on that tremendous ,
slope. To bo doing nothilig w'hcn every muscle in
your body ought to be at its utmost strain, is to enjoy

^12

THU PLAYGROUND OF JSUROPF

a moBt deliglitfal sensation. On such occasions, the
traveller may climb the little glen, through which two
streams descend from the Confinale to join the Frodolfo
just opposite the Ktahilimento. At a height of somo
twe or three hundred feet may be found delicious
resting-places, beneath the lowest stragglers from the
pine foieats above. The sweet smell of new-mown hay
comes to you from the surrounding meadow, and yon
may watch the peasants toiling from morn till night
shaving the Alp as close ns the face of a British parson
in the diocese of Bochester, and bearing down huge'
burdens on their shoulders. Or you may go to the
industrious ant, who, it is true, is rather too abundant
on these slopesj^and ^A'e thanks that you, for the time
being, are a butterfly — not indeed that the butterfly is
a satisfactory emblem, for he is much too fussy an
insect to eiyoy himself properly, and is quite incapable
•of lying^n his back in the sunchine. The Alpine pig
which roots contentedly round the chalets, whilst the
goats and cattle are climbing the steep stony ridges,
sets a better cjgp.mple; or, if a more poetical symbol be
required, there is much to be said for the lizard, who
creeps out of his cranny to bask in the sun, and retires
to his domestic comforts when the light disappears.
Besting in sublime indolence yon iiiay admire the
beauty of Alpine foregrounds. What, for example, is
, more perfect than one of those great boulders, that have
descended into quiet valley life from their unpleasant
elevation on exposed and lofty ridges ? Every ledge is

THE BATHS OF SANTA CATARINA 21«

enamelled by some harmonious lichen. The miniature
caves are spread ith soft beds of moss, and delicate ferns
look out from unexpected crannies. Brilliant flowers
(the names of every one of which are entirely unknown
to me), supply points of glowing colour along the ridges
and salient angles, and some graceful tree manages to
find sufficient nourishment for its roots, and rises like .
the crest of a helmet above the crag. One may spend a
lazy hour in tracing out the beauties of the diminutive
terraces and slopes of these charming gardens, and at
intervals cast one’s eyes upwards to the great peaks
that*look down upon one through the forest branches.
Hash painters who try to grapple with the Alps
generally make an impossible sketch of some imaghiary
crag, whose architecture th(>y misunderstand, and
whose colours they grossly exaggerate, and then pul a
mist and* an imaginary jirecipice in the foreground to
exaggerate t^ie* apparent height of their chimerical
monsters. If they would be kind enough for once to
paint truly some of the lovely little dcUs which
travellers pass with eyes glued to t^eir guide-books,
and merely throw in a mountain as a subordinate
object, they would attempt a task more on a level with
human powers, they would give a truer fdea of some
of the greatest charms of the scenery, and we should
hear less of the want of the pict^esque in Alpine
scenery. If the traveller fe^s slightly more energetic^
ho may climb the slopes behind the house, and hunt
for strawberries in the open glades of the pine forest,

til THVS PLAYOBOUND OF EUROPE

or a little higher, whore the natives have rnthlessly
extirpated the trees and left theii' <l(>eaylng sinmps to
form admirable beds for those most ih'lieious of fruits.
Or he may wander through lovely woods and meadows
to the glen where a stream from the So\retta glacier
forms a waterfall too humble to be an object for
tourists, but singularly picturesque when it comes ns
a sudden surprise. Or ho may follow the beautiful
gorge which gradually rises from the level of Santa
Catarina, to the foot of the Forno glacier, the path
through which shows as charming a variety of valley
scenery as is to be found in any similar walk in Switz-
erland. Or, he may confine himself to the ordinary
post-prandial constituflonal of tho bath guests along
the road to Borraio. Even there, every turn of the
valley shows a now beauty, and we paused many an
evening to admire the purple shades of tlte distant
mountaiife against the evcnuig sky, or* to watch for
the strange afterglow which comes oat on the Tresero
when the sunlight seems to have died away, and all
the lower regioi^i^ already in deep starlight. Wher-
ever he wanders, that graceful summit looks down
tipon him and seems to be tho presiding influence of
the district ; and it is hard to say at what hour it is
most graceful— whether it is best relieved against a
group of chalets^ or a slope of Alpine meadow, or the
,^dark shadows of the pine* forest. «

But these are humble pleasures, and to be enjoyed
in their measure in almost every district where tho

THE BATHS OF SANTA CATABINA 216^

overlasting snows arc visible from the lower coautry.
Let us rise a little higher, and in the first place say a
few words on that inevitable sight, without which no
gentlemaii’s visit can be complptc. I have, I must
confess, al\Aays admired the courage which enables its
possessor to set the established code of sightseers at
defiance — to go to America without seeing the falls of
Niagara, or to Borne without socing Bt. Peter’s, or to
Jerusalem without seeing the Holy BepTilchre. The
number of persons who have the necessary indepen-
dence of character is rare indeed ; but such, and only
such* persons, miglit visit Santa Catarina without
aseending the Monte Continale. AVheii I speak of
‘persons,’ I at pr(*scnt cxclud(; not only the female
sex, in defiance of Mr. Mill, but most foreigners and
all Englishmen with less than two legs. IMicn Santa
(latarina„ however, is a little more known, the 2tro-
l)Osition will be true though a wider sense b(^ given to
the word. There are at i)rescnt none of the conve-
niences which would make the ascent as easy as any of
the recognised centres of Aljunc ])anorama ; yet with-
out such helps, an Italian lady (of, it ]£ust be admitted,
unusual pedestrian powers) made one of a party wrhich
I accompanied, and the jiath lies over gently sloping
alps, succeeded near the top by a short slope of snow,
and then some rocks, easier than those of the Piz
Langj^ard. With that upstart peak it may boldly
compare itself. True it vis that the Languard ha^
presumptuously compared itself of late years with the

216 T6E PLATQROUND OF EUROPE

I

♦

Bigi, the Faulhorn, the ^ggischhorn, and the 6dr-

nergrat. It is high time that such audacity should bo

• *

fitly rebuked. Its one claim upon public fgyour is
founded on the fact that a largo number of peaks may
bo counted from its summit ; but it is just as rational
to decide on the beauty of a Aiew by the number of
visible mountains as on the merits of a candidate by
the number of votes ho receives under household
suffrage. It raises a certain presumption that the
mountain or the candidate can make a noise in the
■world, but •whether he be of genuine merit or a more
charlatan is an open question. Now the Languard,
in my opinion, would very likely catch the suffrages
of the Tower Hamlets, but would scarcely be fitted to
ro})rcsent an intelligent constituency. It is deficient
in the essential quality of a grand foreground; tho
mountains seen from it are not well grou|)ed ; and
though I admit that there is something striking in a
Vrildcrness of peaks, countless as * the leaves in Yal-
lombrosa,’ there is throughout a want of cohesion and
concentration. In this respect, the Confinalc is a
striking contrast, and is a good example of a rare class
of views. It stands approximately at the centre of a
gigantic hofseshoo of snowclad mountains, from which
it is divided by a deep trench, except at the point
where a low isthmus connects it with one of tho
loftiest summitE^ (tho Epnigspitz), and divides tho
tiwaters of the two streams ^t its base. Had t been
consulted as a landscape gardener on tho laying out

THE BATHS OF SAjfTA CATABINA 2W

of this district, I should t^rtainly have recommended
the complete omission of theOonfinalc, and substituted
for it a level plain or perhaps a lake. Its site would
then have formed, as it were, the pit of a mighty
theatre some five and twenty m^les in circumference ;
the huge mountain crescent occupying the place of
the boxes and galleries. As, for obvious reasons, my ^
advice was not asked, the visitor must be contented
with the present arrangement, and imagine himself
elevated on a lofty rostrum in the centre of the pit,
but still far below the galleries. On his left hand a
long* wall of tremendous black cliffs (strongly re-
sembling those of the Gasternthal near the Gemmi)
sinks into the wild valley of the Zobrii, inhabited only
in the summer months by a few herdsmen. Above
this wall, at some distance, towers the massive block
of the Oytler Spitz, cleaving the air with its sharp
final crest. About the centre of the crescent, iu
front of the siiectator, the ridge culminates in the
noble Eonigspitz, falling on this side in a sheer cliff
towards the valley. The mighty precipices of this
segment of the crescent, through wliich one or two
huge glaciers have hewn deep trenches towards the
valley, are well contrasted with the graceful undula-
tions of the long snow-slopes and streaming glaciers
which clothe Aic ridges to the right. Tho ever beau-
tiful Tresero marks an intcnrnption to the wall, where
a lateral valley comes in from the south, but it*is con*
tinned in the long swell of the Sovretta. This half of

il8 THE PLAYGliOUND OF EUROPE

tho semicircle is divided from the Confinale by the
green valley of tho Frodolfo, into which the eye
plunges for some thousand feet, though not quite far
enough to catch sight of the baths which nestle at the
bottom of the gorge. There are nobler mountains,
steeper cliffs, and vaster glaciers elsewhere, but it
would be hard to find any point from which tho stern-
ness and sweetness of the TTigh Alps are more skilfully
contrasted and combined. From tho top of yonder
parapets, not forty, but (say) forty thousand ages
look down upon you ; and the scarred and crumbling
parajjots seem well placed to guard the quiet' pas-
turages above which they tower. It may remind one
of tho inaccessible ridge that surrounded tho mythi-
cal Abyssinian valley of Itassclas ; and invohmtarily
I used to quote a fragment from Mr. Kingsley’s ballad
describing old Athanaric’s sensations on looking at
the wall^of Constantinople :

Quoth the lialt, Who would leap that garden wall
King Sivrid'B boots must own !

The Alpine Club have i)erhaps found King Sivrid’s
boots, and Basselas would be able to leave his valley
by the excellent road of the Stelvio ; but to enjoy an
Alpine view properly, one should at times be dreamy
and 8entimental,*and believe in tho inaccessible. Of
^onc half of tlie view 1 hWe yet said nothing ; <and it
will bo enough to say that,*tuming round and looking
between the horns of tho crescent, there appears a

THK BATHS OF SANTA CATARINA 2l!f

tumblud soa of momitains ami valleys, in which the
Bernina chain is conspicuoas. 1 do not attempt to say
what is or is not in si{<ht, for three reasons : first, T
don't care; secondly, I am sure the reader doesn't
care ; and thirdly, I don’t know. But if the spectator
is lucky enough not to have a clear day, he may enjoy
hmv' such view as that at which I wondeietl. Yast •
snowstorms were hwti>i)ing across the sky, casting
many square leagues at a time into profound shadow’,
with broad intervening stretches of sunshine. The
s did mountains, under the \arying effects of light and
shade, seemed to melt, and form, and ni( It again ; and
it was impossible to recognise ])articular points with-
out luinute local knowledge. ‘At c\ery in>-tant some
new ridg( seemed to start into e’.istmice, and then to
be blotted out or sink into a plain, li is a strange
sight to %ee mountains resemble the changing sca-
W’aves: and yet. if geologists sjieak tiuth, ft is only
what we should see, if wo could li\e a little slower,
and consider a million years or so us a single day.
Meanwhile it is just as well for us tjiat these freaks
are nothing but the effects of fancy, and that the
Coniinalo is, for practical purposes, as firm as the
Monument — or, indeed, rather firmer. Yet I ha\e
still a faint wish that it could be levelled, and the
interior of that mighty crescent bc*converto<l into a
level park. There would really be nothing like it ii^
Europe, and there wouUf be some admirable loca-
tions for monster hotels and casinos. Peihaps the

€220 TBE PLAYdsOUND OF EUROPE

AmoricauB will set about it, when those effete countries
are annexed to the United States. *

Once more, and only once more, I must invite my
reader to yet a further effort. I confess — ^for it would
he useless to conceal — that I am a fanatic. I believe
that the ascent of mountains forms an essential chap-
ter in the complete duty of man, and that it is wron^i;
to leave any district without setting foot on its
highest peak. In this chapter I will endeavour for
once to keep clear of snow-slopes aud step-cuttiug, of
ropes and crevasses, and even of the inevitable de-
scription of an Alpine meal. But 1 cannot, in colnmou
decency, leave Santa Catarina before paying my
respects to the monarch of the district, the noble
Eonigspitz. Long had that peak haunted my dreams,
and beckoned to mo whenever 1 had climbed above
the lower slopes of the valley. 1 had treated the
ucomplaint homecopathically, by ah ascent of the
Tresero ; but my appetite was whetted instead of
satiated. 1 had distracted my attention by various
long, solitary gambles up some of the minor peaks.
There is this great advantage about walking without
guides — namely, that it is easy to got into real diffi-
culties on ](>laces where it would be apparently impos-
sible to do so on the ordinary system. Thus, for
example, on thi^ Sovretta there is only one cliff on
tlie mountain where anything like a scramblers con-
ceivable, and that cliff is pbrfectly easy to cross except
after a fresh full of snow. It is entirely out of the

THE BATUa OF SA^TA CATABINA 22f

way of any sensible ronte to anywhere. But by
abstaining frihn guides 1 succeeded in placing myself
on the face of this cliff the morning after a heavy
snowfall, and had two hours of keen excitement in a
climb which was ultimately successful. By pursuing
this system courageously, a traveller may discover
^difficulties and dangers on the Bigi or the Breveut ; •
and, if ho be careless and inexperienced, may even
manage a serious accident in cither of those places. I
felt, however, that though a pleasant substitute, this
was not quite the real thing. 1 'nas too much like
the Sportsman reduced by adverse circumstances from
tiger-hunting to rabbit-shooting ; and when the Konig-
spitz renewed its invitation, dbe lovely afternoon, I
could not find it in my heart to refuse, and made an
appointment for the next morning at 2 a.u. And
here, in Accordance with the pledge just given, I omit
a thrilling description. The reader may falhcy preci-
pices covered with treacherous rock, giddy slopes of
ice, yawning crevasses, or any combination of terrors
taken at random from ' Peaks, Passcs^and Glaciers,’ or
the year-books of Alpine Clubs. It is enou^ to say,
that with the help of a good guide (one Pietro Com-
pagnoni, whom I hereby commend to Alpme climbers),
I found my^lf, about half-past nine, enjoying a
strangely impressive view. It ia easy enough to
descril)6 what I saw ; but the mischief is that I wa^
chiefly impressed by what I did not see ; and herein
lies ono gteat difficulty of the descriptive traveller.

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

lie can draw some rouf^li onllino of tho piclnro pho-
tographed on his mind's eyo, but how is he to roprodiiec
the terrors of tho tinseen, which were probably tlio
most potent elements in the total effect produced?
Here, for example, I was standing on tlic highest
point of the Konigspitz ; a few yards of tolerably level
snow-ridge were distinctly visible; I could easily'
picture to myself tho steep icy staircase by which I
had climbed to it from the top of a lower precipice ;
but, loobing upwards, or in any direction horizontally,
nothing met theeje but a blank wall of mist. On
cither side I could see slopes of snow or rock descend-
ing with apparent frightful steepness for a few feet,
and then, once more, that blank misty wall. I knew
not what gulfs might have been revealed if the mists
bad suddenly lifted, or •what grand form of cliff or
mountain spire might have slinp('d itself (iiit of the
).)ackgrou^d. In short, I saw little moro tlian might
be observed in a thick mist on a snowy day on the top
of Snowdon or llolvellyn ; and yet I count that the
mountain tops wliich I have visited under such cir-
cumstances have not been tho least impressive of my
acquaintance. It is a secret of good art to leave
something tt> tho imagination ; and 1 had quite enough
materials to work with. I knew how stoop and slip-
pery was tho path which had led to this mid-aerial
perch ; and the juecipices which I saw on eve^ side
plunging furiously downwards must l)e far steeper
than those by which I had ascended. Suppose I had

THE BATHS OF 8Ali*rA CAT ABIE A m

suddenly cut tlie ropo, and pUi9!.od Conipajpunii iner
the edge, I could realise only too vividly the plunge
which ho would toko into the lower regions, the tor-
rible acceleration of his pace, and tho fearful blows, at
increasing intervals, against the icy ribs of the moun-
tains. It is an amusing and instructire 'experiment,
^f you have a weak-nerved companion, to throw down
a large stone under such circumstances ; and if by any
ingenious niaiweuvro you can give him the impression
that it is one of tlio party, the efifect is considerably
beiglitened. The liollow sound of the blows coming
up, Hainter and fainter, from the invisible chasm
beneath naturally enabb'S one to realise tho course
which one’s own body would follow, and renders the
cliff, as it were, audible insk'ad of visible. By such
dallying with danger, tme learns to appreciate the
real majesty of an Alpine cUff. There are various de-
lusions of p^rslu'ctive which on a bright day some-
times diminish the apparent height of a precipice ; but
when it is robed hi mysterious davkius^, and only
some such dim intimations as the sound of a fallmg
stone come up to stimulate your curiosity, it is your
own fault if you do not make it tho most terrible of
cliffs that ever tried tho stoadinoss of a ihountainccr's
head. I confess, indeed, that tlie Konigspitz w'as too
thickly shrouded on the day of which I speak; it
would have been still more majestic had its robes been
parted at intervals, so as *to give artistic revelations of
its massive proportions. Yet it is worth remarking

<224 TBE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

that notliing helps more to give a certain mysterious
charm to the monutaius than an occ&ional ramble
through their recesses in bad weather ; it is only a
half-hearted lover of their scenery who would pray for
a constant succession of unclouded skios. Could such
a prayer bo grunted, the mountain which was its
victim wopld be as tiresome as a thoroughly good-
tempered man — that is, it would be on the high road
to become a bore.

Wo left Santa Catarina by the Stehio, and Indtcd
for a day or two at the charming little village of
Trafoi. Trafoi is undoubtedly more lovely than Santa
Catarina, and indeed may rank witli the most perfect
of Alpine centres. ^Accordingly, certain sceptical
doubts beset me for a time as to the charms of the
district I have endeavoured to describe. Hud we
really been comfortable or well-fed? Wa3 our ad-
miration <genuine, or more or less due to affectation ?
The first discoverers of a new district are always
unduly eulogistic, because praising it is indirectly
])raiBing themselves. Might we not have been giving
way in some degree to that common weakness ? These
unpleasant doubts have gradually given way to a
settled faithl I am far from declaring that a belief in
the inimitable glories of Santa Catarina^s on essential
part of the true mountaineer’s creed. Still more
should I shrink from condemning to everlasting ^exclu-
sion from that little paradise any one who might take
a lower view of its merits than 1 do. He would be

• •

TSE SATH8 OF SANTA CATABINA 226

wrong, but T doubt whother his error would be of so
deep a d}'o ns*to bo necessarily criminal. I would
speak to him if I met him in the streets, especially
in London. Indeed, hclrosy in Alpine matters is not
always so unimrdonublc as appears at first sight. No
onp can appreciate good scenery when bis digestion is
t of order ; few people can appreciate it with -blisters
on their feet, and not every one who is bitten of
fieas. Therefore, if a person who has visited any
Alpine district under such disadvantages ventures to
differ from me, I am frequently inclined to forgive
him. t)no of the evils 1 have mentioned is, 1 fear, for
the present, almost inseparable from Santa Catarina,
and so far heretics may put forward a plea of some
value ; but if any one provided with a good bottle of
insecticide, and otherwise in health and spirits, should
deny the ch&rms of Santa Catarina, I consider him as
beyond the pale of the true faith, and liable*to the *
consequences of such a position, whatever they may
be. The only piece of advice I shall give him is, to
stay away, that there may be the more room for
orthodox believers.

Q

226

THE PLAihsOUND OF EUBOPE

CHAPTER X

TBS PBAES OF PAIMIERO

1

At some distant period, when the Alpine Club is half
forgotten, and its early records are obsenred amongst
the mist of legends and popular traditions, thciti is oiR)
great puzzle in store for the critical inquirer. As lie
tides to disentangle ttuth from fiction, and to ascertain
what is the small nucleus of fact round which so many
incredible stories have gathered, he will be specially
perplexed hy the constant recurrence of one name. In
the helhic cycle of 'Alpine i^dvepturl, (he irrepressible
Tuckett will occupy a place similar to that of the
wandering Ulysses in Greek fable, or the invulnerable
Sivrid in the (py of the Xiehclnngs. « In every part of
the ^ps, from Monte Yiso and Dauphine to the wilds
of Carinthia and Styria, ,the> exploits t)f this mighty
traveller will linger in the popular imagination. In
one valley the peasant will point to pome vast breach
in the overlostipg rocks, hewn,,^^his fancy will declare^
|j>y the sweep o{ the ntighty ice>axe, qf the hqro. In
another, the sharp conlbal^ siqnmit, known as the
Tn^ettspitz, will be regarded as a monument railed

THE PEAKS 0F*PEIM1ES0

22T

by tlio eponymous giant, or possibly as the tombstone
piled above 1ms athletic remains. Tn a third the broken
masses of a descending glacier will fairly represent the
staircase which he built in order to scale a previously
inaccessible height. That a person so ubiquitous, and
distinguished everywhere by such romantic exploits,
hoald have been a mere creature of flesh and blood
will, of course, be rejected as an absurd hypothesis.
Critics will rather be disposed to trace in him one
more example of that universal myth whose recurrence
in divers forms proves, amongst other things, the unity
of the great Arjan race. Tuckett, it will be an-
nounced, is no other than the sun, which appears at
earliest dawn above the tops of^ie loftiest mountains,
gilds the summits of the most inaccessible peaks, pene-
trates the remotest valleys, and passes in an incredibly
short space of time from one extremity of the Alpine
chain to the o^hA:. • •

Fortunately, the Alpine Club well knows that Mr.
Tuckett is a flesh and blood reality— no cnix)ty phan-
tom of the imagination, but a being capable of con-
suming even Alpine food and being consumed by
Alpine insects. Possibly, like Sivrid or Achilles, he
may have one vulnerable point, though F am pretty
sure that it is not his heel ; but if it exists, it has not
yet been betrayed to his followers. }Vhen, therefore,

I read^ that ^eat collectk»u of facts and stories ,
founded, it is to be hoped, dh &cta — ^Mr. Ball’s * Guide
the Alps ’ — ^that the mighty Tuckett himself, and the

^28 TEE PLAY(^BOUND OF EUSOPE

equally mighty Melchior Anderegg, had prononneed
the peaks of Frimioro to he inaccessiUle, there came
to me something of the thrill felt by

Borne watcher of the skies
When a now planet swims into his ken,

Or like stout Cortes, when with eagle eyes
Ho stared at the Pacific, and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise,

Silent upon a peak in Darien.

I stood silent before the peaks of Frimioro, and saw in
them a new laud, still nntoaclied by the foot of the
tonrist, and opening vast possibilities of daring adven*
ture and deathless fame for some hero of the future.
To me, alas ! those possibilities were closed. I was
alone (at 6.15 A.ai. oi» a brilliant morning of August
1869) in the quiet street of the lovely little town of
Frimioro. I was prepared indeed for a day’s moun*
taineering, but a day how unlike to those when, with
•alpenstock in hand and knaprack on^ha^k, with a little
corps of faithful guides and tried companions, 1 had
moved out to the attack of some hitherto unconquered
peak! Before^ me, mdecd, lay mountains most ex-
citing to the imagination. Above the meadows of the
Frimioro valley there rises a long slope, first of forest
and then alp, to the foot of the mighty peaks which
spring at one bound to a height of sopie ten thousand
feet. The two conspicuous summits in front are called
the Sas Maor, and resemble, if I may be par^pned so
vulgar a comparison, tho*raised finger and thumb of
a more than gigantic hand. Behind them, I. knew, lay

THE PEAKS OF ^BIMIEBO

229

a wilderness of partially explored summits, with sides
as steep as tHose of a cathedral, and surrounded by
daring spires and pinnacles, writhing into every con-
ceivable shape, and almost too fantastical to be beauti-
ful. Mr. Tuckett had made two passes through their
ij;itricate valleys and ridges ; yet even Mr. Tuckett had
shrunk, as I have said, from an attempt to reach their
loftiest points. The Dolomites are the fairyland of
the Alps. All visitors to Botzen know the strange
rooky walls that guard the Bose garden of the goblin
King Laurin ; and the dominion of the same monarch
probfibly extends throughout these iu(^st interesting
valleys. The Primicro peaks seem to have a doubl(‘
measure of enchantment ; soifie strange magic had
held the Alpine Club at a distance, and, what was
more provoking, had cast a profound drowsiness over
the dwellers at their feet, and almost prevented them
from raising thdlr eyes to these wild bumuiits, or be*
stowing names upon them. Yet I could not flatter
myself that I should be the first to break the charm
or to plant my feet on those daring peaks which had
remained undisturbed since they first rose, by some
strangely mysterious process, to break the softer scenery
around them. I had a Spanish wine-bottle slung
round me, a ci;pst of bread in my pocket, and an axe
in my hand ; but alone, and determined to come back
in on* piece, 1 could only hope to open a path for^
more daring adventurers,* and, like a church spire,
to point to Paradise without attempting to lead the

^80 THE PLATGBOUND OF EUBOPE

yr&j. The present chapter, therefore, must be pre-
faced with a warning to true mountainWs that they
must espoct from it no records of thrilling adventure,
and that 1 shall not even assert (for the perhaps in-
sufficient reason that it is not true) that at any given
point a false step might have broken my neck.

My way led at first along a good road, to the foot
of the Castle of La Fietra. I cannot imagine a mure
enviable dwelling-place for a baron of a few centuries
back. From his rocky fortress he looked down upon
the little village lying at his feet, and, having the
power of life and death over its inhabitants, was
doubtless regarded with universal respect. The most
practicable road into {his secluded country lay imme-
diately beneath his walls, and must have enabled him
conveniently to raise such duties as wore compatible
with the commercial theories of the epoch ; lhat is, ho
bould tafie whatever he liked. The rock is so pre-
cipitous that a few landslips have rendered it literally
inaccessible without the use of ladders. But the most
eligible part ofithe estate (to use the dialect of auc-
tioneers) must have been the lovely little side valley,
the entrance to the col, which was covered by the castle.
This valley, called the Yal di Canale, stretches north-
eastward into the heart of the mountams. The stream
which waters it; sparkling with the incomparable
•brilliancy characteristic (% the Dolomite regionf, flows
throng a level plain of the greenest turf, dotted with
occasional clamps and groves of pines that have strayed

THE TKAKH 01'* riilMlEllO

2ftl

downwards from the bounding slopes. In tho com-
parison between mountainous and lowland countries,
it is an obvious advantage to the former — though Ido
not remember to have seen it noticed — that it is only
amongst the mountains that you can properly appre-
ciate a plain. Such a meadow as that I was crossing
w'ould have been simply a commonplace pasturage in
Leicestershire. Contrasting it with tho mighty clifrs
that enclosed it on every side, it was a piece of em-
bodied poetry. Nature hod been a most effective land-
scape gardener, and had even laid out for the benefit
of the lords of the Castle of La Fietra a kind of glori-
fied park. I apologise for the expression. I have,
indeed, heard true British li^)* declare that one of the
loveliest bits of Alpine scenery was really parklike,
and serenely condescend to flatter the mountains by
comparing them to tho deadly dulncss of the grounds
that snrroupd*a first-class family mansipn in ojir
respectable island. Here, however, there was un-
doubtedly a faint resemblance; only it was such a
park as we may hope to meet in tlio Elysian fields ; a
pork as much like its British representative as an angel
to a country gentleman. Tho difference lay principally
in the system of fences adopted in the two cases.
Here it was,formod by one of those gigantic walls
which almost oppress tho imagination by their stupen-
dous massiveness. I was evidently contemplating one
of tho great scenic offeeft of tho Alps, not, to my tasCe,
rivalling Criudelwald, Macuguaga, or Courmaycur, but

TBS PLATGSOUND OF EVSOPE

yet in its own style elmpst unique. The huge barrier
before me was the defence of that fairyland into which
1 was seeking entrance. The cliffs rose abruptly and
with tremendous steepness, though their bases were
joined to the valley by long slopes of debris that had
accumulated in countless ages. It is impossible to
paint such scenery in words, or to give any notion of
the force with which the bare rocks, a deadly grey in
some places, and tinged in others with the ruddy hue
common in the Dolomites, contrasted with the rich
Italian vegetation at their feet. The only comparison
I can think of is somewhat derogatory to their dignity.
However, one can hardly be called responsible for
the strange freaks played in one’s mind by queer
associations of ideas. For reasons which would be too
long to explain, I can never look at crevasses of a
certain character without being reminded of j.he meal
c^ed fiv^ o’clock tea ; and it was certainly a closer
analogy which on this occasion suggested to me the
picture of a gigantic raised pic, such as sometimes com>
pletes the circuit of a table before any audacious guest
makes an inroad *into its contents. At last appetite
gets the better of modesty : a sacrilegious hand is
raised, and a few bold gashes with the knife make
terrible rents into its solid sides, and heap piles of
rained paste in the dish below. Even so had some
mysterious agent sliced an^ hacked the great Dolomite
\fltll, and though the barrien still rose os proudly as
ever along a great part of the line, there were deep

THE PEAKS OF^PBIWEBO

23$

trenches and gullies hewn through it at various places,
masses had evidently given way at some distant period,
and others were apparently threatening to follow them.

1 was still in utter darkness as to the geography of the
district, but on reflection I thought it best to enter the
broadest and most accessible of these gashes, which
lay immediately behind the Sas Maor, and is known
as the Yal di Fravitali. It was what would bo called
a ghyll in the English lakes, that is, a steep lateral
gorge enclosed by precipitous rocks on each side, and
it appeared to terminate at a distinctly marked col,
fronf which there would probably be a descent to the
other fork of the Primiero valley. By following this
route I should at least pass thit>ugh the very heart of
the mountains.

My climb was interesting from the strangeness of
the scenery, but not in any sense difficult. The
Dolomite roqi^s*have this disadvantage, 4hat tho
debris are generally formed of small hard pebbles of
dazzling whiteness, from which the water drains off
rapidly, and which havo therefore litt}(B power of cohe-
sion. The foot rests on a bed of loose stones, which
in other formations would give firm hold, but which
here crumbles away, to the immment rikk of your
equilibrium. IJ^ot a drop of water is to be had ; the
sun strikes down with tremendous fegree, and its rays
are rejected with almost unabated power from the^
blinding stones. In the ^Uy which I was speedily
elimbing there was not a breath of air. I was in good

^84 TUE PLATGBOVND OF EVliOFE

training, but without the stimnlating effect of company.
Great as is the charm of solitary wolk^ on due occa*
sion, they produce a sovorc strain on tho moral
energies. Why, it has been asked by certain assail-
ants of utilitarian heresies, should a man do right
\\'hen there is no chance of his being found out ? Why
should not the true Benthamite pick (jockets, or knock
his friend on the head, if tho penitentiary and the
gallows are out of the question? Most victoriously
had 1 refuted that sneer, or so I fancied, when living
in London with a policeman round the corner. But
now, in the deep solitude of the Alps, it recurred to
me with great force, and 1 fclc inclined to accept the
other horn of tho dilemma. Why not break the
mountaineer’s code of commandments ? Why not sit
down in tho first bit of shade, to smoko my pipe and
admire tho beauties of nature ? Tho tempfOr did not
Veveal hfinself to me in bodily form as in that charm-
ing story told in the notes to * Guy Manncring,’ but £
developed a fearful skill in sophistical argumentation,
which supplied idle place of any external deceiver, and
for a moment was in danger of lapsing into the fearful
heresies in things Alpine which are popular amongst
the fat and the lazy. I struggled, however, against
the meshes of false reasoning which seemed to be
winding themselves tangibly round my legs, and toiled
• slowly upwards. I raised my feet slowly and rieepily ;
1 groaned at the round, smooth, slippery pebbles, and
lamented the absence of water. At lengtli I reached a

THE PEAKS OF PBIMIEEO

235

little patch of snow, and managed to slake my parched
lips and once more to toil more actively upwards. A
huge boulder, in colour and form resembling a gigantic
snowball, filled up the gully, and gave me a little
amusement in surmounting it. A few minutes more
and I entered a very remarkable grassy plain, of which
I shall again have occasion to speak, and after about
five hours' walk from Frimiero, sat down on the col 1
have mentioned to determine my future course. Here
1 was in the position of that celebrated gentleman uho
could not see the town on account of the houses. 1
was fairly perplexed and iTcwildcrcd. On every side
there w'cre gigantic cliffs, soarmg pinnacles, and pre-
cipitous ravines. They roso*so abruptly, and ap-
parently in such wild confusion, all perspective was so
hopelessly distorted, that I was totally unable to get my
])oarings*. The fantastic Dolomite mountains towered
all around me m shapes more like dreams ftian sobdr
realities; they recall quaint Eastern architecture,
whoso daring pinnacles derive their charm from a
studied defiance of the sober principles of stability.
The Chamonix aiguilles, as I have said, inevitably
remind one of Gothic cathedrals ; but yi their most
daring moments they appear to bo massive, immovable,
and eternal. •The Dolomites are strange adventurous
experiments, which one can scarcely believe to be
formfd of ordinary rock^ *Thoy would have been «
fit background for the garden of Kubla Khan ; there
are strange romantic chasms where * Alph the sacred

the flayobound of eubope

river ’ might plunge into ‘ caverns measureless to
man ; ’ while at times I found myself looking out in-
stinctively for the strange valley where Sinbad col-
lected his heaps of diamonds. Indeed, I am half
inclined to think that I found it, as shah bo presently
told ; at any rate, as I looked upwards at the strange
walls around me, I was thoroughly bewildered with
their intricacies, and by the singular change wrought
in them by the now perspective.

I was at the foot of the promised peaks -nay, I
might bo halfway up them, but I could not even guess
which was the right line of assault, and in wnich
direction the main summits lay. I might descend
the rapine which 1 saw plunging rapidly downwards
amongst the roots of the mountains on the other side
of tlic col, but by such a coarse I should see no more
than I had hitherto observed. After some reflection
{Uid hesitation it became obvious thaf the single fact
of which 1 could confidently rely was that the great
mass of rock to the south, on my left hand, must
intervene between me and the Valley of Primiero. If
it were possible to climb it, I should get a more dis-
tinct view of the mountains to the north, and might
possibly find' a short cut home across the ridge. With
this plan I commenced operations by cHmbmg a long
snow-slope which was luckily in fair order. I ascended
l^apidly, cutting a step oi^ two in one place, and, on
reaching the head of the snow, I took to the ridge of
rocks at a point where a very remarkable pinnacle of

THE PEAKS OF^EIMIBBO

m

great height rises into a shape ^hich a fanciful
traveller maji compare to a bayonet with the point
bent over to one side. The rocks, though apparently
difficult at a distance, turned out on closer approach
to be excellently adapted to my purpose. I topped
the ridge, and bearing to my left forced my way along
it in spite of one or two gaps which for a moment
threatened my advance. It was growing late, and I
had reason to supix>se that my absence, if much pro-
longed, might cause some anxiety to those I had left
at Primicro. I resolved that I would turn back under
an^ circumstances at 2.30, but I made strenuous
efforts to be as far advanced as possible at the fatal
hour. My energy was rewarded. With still a minute
or two to spare, I stood upon the top of the momitain
— of what mountain I could not possibly say. Had 1
been an* artist, 1 should have instantly sat down in
spite of my huwy to make some sort of outjino of tlje
view which presented itself. As it was, 1 drained the
last drops of my wiiio-flask, ate my last crust of bread,
and endeavoured to make a mental photograph of the
scene before me as rapidly as possible. To the north
rose the great mass of peaks at whose feet I had been
clambering for hours. In every direction they pre-
sented fearfully steep cliffs, and, with the exception of
a single glacier of trifling dimensions, scarcely one
patc|j} of snow. The sumivit upon which I was stand-
ing was part of the gresH; ridge from which rise ttfe
singular peaks of the Sas Maor. I was divided from

286

TSE PLAYOfiOUND OF EUEOPE

them by a deep cleft, and, so far as I could judge, ivas
at a point about intermediate in height between those
astonishing twins. More singular towers of rock arc
scarcely to be found in the Alps. At the time, I com-
pared the ridge before me to some monstrous reef
stretching out to seaward, with a singularly daring
lighthouse erected on a distant point, or rather, if such
a thing could be imagined, growing spontaneously out
of tlie rock and bending over as it rose. Or perhaps
a more perfect likeness might be found to the head of
some great monster extended at full length, and armed
with a couple of curved horns like those of the double*
horned rhinoceros. The monster was covered with
ail manner of singular jcxcrcscences, spines and knobs
growing out of his stony hide ; amidst which these
two singular elevations towered in daring disregard of
the laws of equilibrium. One could hardly believe
that rock would shape itself into sucl^ strange forms,
and that there was not some kind of znuscular fibre
to weave them into comparative fimmess. I looked
at them with a strong sense of wonder, though, to
confess the truth; i^th a belief tliat somebody might
possibly discover a route to the loftier of the two from
the deep trench which divided them from me.

And here, more than anywhere else, the spells of
King Laurin, or the mysterious monalch, whatever
may be his name,'who rules these enchanted districts,
seemed to become almost ^tangible; The absolute
solitude \raiB doubtless favourable to their effectual

THE PEAKS OFtPEIMIEBO

vrorking. Bentley, in one of bis bla&hing corrections
of Milton, py>posed to substitute the ‘ sacred ’ for tbc
‘ secret top of Horeb or of Sinai,’ for the reason that
'the top of a mountain is of all places the least ‘ secret’
or private. De Quincey remarks upon this that ‘ no
secrecy is so complete and so undisturbed by sound or
gaze from below as that of a mountain-top, such as
Helvellyn, Great Gavel, or Blencathra.’ The truth
lies in the combination of these views. The mountain
solitude is so intense because the mountains are, in
one sense, so far from secret. You may be as solitary
in ihe oontre of a ^ood or a plain, but }ou cannot
realise your isolation so distinctly. It is because the
meadows and inhabited xilacQ^s are apparently Avithin
the cast of a iX'bble, that the great gulf between you
and them becomes emphatic. Yon know that you
might (pll, for example, from the summit of a cliff,
upon which a Jiundred sightseers are gazing at the
time, and yet they would be unaware that a tragedy
was being performed before their eyes. Solitude in a
crowd is supposed to bo the worst kind of solitude ;
but perhaps the most impressive is 'the solitude on a
point visible and familiar to half a nation. The ordi-
nary accompaniments of such a scene, ihe gossip of
guides and the noisy triumph of a successful part}',
are apt to break the charm ; and indeed I remember,
. with^something like a SGU|e of shame, how on one of
the loftiest peaks of Switzerland I spent the preciotts
moments in having my trousers mended by a guide,

240

TSE PLAYGROUND OP EUROPE

'Who happened to be also a tailor. Bomance was of
course oat of the question under such ckcumstances.
Here, on this strange desolate crag, I was exposed
without interruption to the magic of the scenery. Far
along the horizon rose the mysterious peaks— not
arranged, like mountains of mere ordinary flesh and
blood, along a respectable watershed, with glaciers
symmetrically arranged upon their flanks, and some
regard for geographical propriety — but dispersed in
picturesque confusion like the spires of a mediseval
town. The Dolomite country appears to me to be
properly speaking a liill, rather than a mounfliin,
district — a region of green meadows and sparkling
waters. These great masses of bare discoloured rock
have somehow been intruded by diabolical art — 1
mean no offence by the epithet, for tlie devil, u we
may judge by his dykes and punch-bowls aeven in
I^ngland, Jbas had great success as g. landscape
gardener — and, in short, seem to be mountains
witched rather than mountains duo to the ordinary
forces of upheaval and erosion.

The strangest part of all the scenery around me
was -the ‘Valley to which I have already referred as
accessible thibugh the Yal di Pravitali, and which was
now some 2,000 or 8,000 feet beneath n)p. It is well
worth a visit from Frimero and may be easily
reached in four or five .hours’ walking. Imagine a
vast cauldron^ bounded by dliffs some 8,000 feet in
height. To the north, indeed, there is a gradual

TB^'PEAKB OF PBIMIESO 241*

ascent to a wild and extensive plateau, whence a small
glacier trickles* into the desolate valley. On the east
towers the tremendous wall of the Palle di S. Martino,
vortical to all appearance if not to the eye of a geolo-
gist. It is scarred and gashed by some of the charac-
teristic gullies of the Dolomite mountains. Some of
them might be climbed for a distance, or a path may
even lie through their hidden depths to the summit
(if the mountain, but they appear at any rate to be
closed by the most forbidding of rocky walls. Oppo-
site to the Palle is a precisely similar wall formed by
a naftieless outlier of (he Frodusta. To the south
rise the more varied but equally precipitous pinnacles
and ’’ock towers of the Has Maier. A single narrow
gai’ I*'' *>8 room for the escape of the torrent of the
■^al di PiavitaU. When I passed, however, the tor-
rent WaS dry ; and, indeed, the utter absence of water
IS one of thq characteristic peculiarities af these «
mountains. The ordinary music of the streams,
which relieves some of the wildest Alpine gorges, was
absolutely mute. Not a somid was to bo beard, and I
felt almost too superstitious to try to raise an echo
with my voice, lest I should recei^e a gliostly answer
in return. The valley floor is nearly Ic^el, except
where it is coi^coaled by heaps of debris from the
neighbouring peaks, and its surface \s very dry and
ijarren, except in one place where the melting snows
r .rt occasionally form a lalf^. A more savage piece of
joeV "cenery is nowhere to be soon. No undulating

B

*342 THE PLAYdBOUND OF EUSOPE

snowfield or boonding torrent of glacier breaks the
tremendous monotony. In every direction blank
walls or daring spires of rock close yon in as it were
in a gigantic dmigeon. Philosophers may explain
how such places are made ; but doubtless it was in
some distant period the keep of the old goblin king.
He was, if I am not mistaken, a potentate of bad
character, and kept up intimate relations with the
personage whose taste in matters of scenery has just
been noticed. His residence has the appearance of
having been blasted by a supernatural curse which
marks the former abode of witches and evil spirits.
The poor old women who had dealings with the evil
one in Germany hatt to content themselves with a
hillock like the Brocken ; but that part of the female
population of Primieru which still takes an occasional
ride on a broomstick — and T am convinced from ap-
‘ pearan()es that there are a good nhmher of them -
gathers in all probability in this wild amphitheatre
where the walls are gleaming in the moonlight or cur
tained by stnyige wreaths of curling mist. Another
fancy came into my head, as I have already hinted,
though I admit that there are some geographical
objections. Nothing could bo more like th(> wonder-
ful valley in which Sinl»ad found tlv* diamonds and
where he had.fo 1m‘ carried by the eagles. True,
^ there are now neither sArpents nor diamonds^* But it
is hard to doubt that the old dragon brood inhabited
one of the ghastly chasms in the rocks before the

TEE PEAKS OF PRIMIEBO

24B

cave died out, and Sinbad may well have been speak-
ing of thorn. As for the diamonds, 1 have always
thought that part of the story too good to be true.
One other suspicions circumstance about these moun-
tains impressed mo forcibly. Never did I see hills
cbtinge then: shapes so rapidly, in all varieties of
weather. The beauty of the Bas Maor induced me — *
though no artist — to try to make an outline of their
singular forms. I lay mider a chestnut-tree in a
lovely meadow at Primiero through a hot summer
aftemgon, and watched the strange transformation of
the cliffs. They would not remain steady for live
minutes together. What lookc^J like a chasm sud-
denly changed into a ridge; plain surfaces of rock
suddenly shaped tliemselves into towering pinnacles ;
and then the pinnacles melted away aiid left a ravine
or a cavei'n. Th^ singular shifting ])bautas^agoria ,
reminded me tho mystical castle in the Vale of
St. John ; and it rcujuired a heartless scepticism to
believe that the only witchcraft at work was that of
tho sun, as it threw varying lights an<f shadows over
the intricate labyrinths of the rocks.

Whatever goblin haunts these cliffs and^ bewilders
tho judgment of tho traveller I muot do him the
justice to say tflat he is tolerably propitious to the
climber. The rnclis shoot oiU> imcxpected knobs and
projectimis to help ouo at a^nneh. Even where they
were most apparently threatening, a nearer iuspcctiou
revealed abundant crannies 943Ld cracks where it was

244

THE PLAYGROUND OF EUROPE

easy to obtain very good hold for hands and feet. If
I had limited my reflections to the question of ascend-
ing the Sas Maor, I should have simply returned by
the way I came. Another plan, however, occurred to
me with irresistible force. Tlie rocks were so good
that I inferred the iKJSsibilit}' of descending straight
to the Primiero valley, i.e. by the opposite ridge of
the mountain to that which I had climbed. All my
life I have suffered from an invincible love of short
cuts. Short cuts to learning, as moralists toll ns, end
in general ignorance; shortcuts touealth, in Pentou-
ville Penitentiary; short cuts to political glory, in
Leicester Square ; and short cuts in mountain districts
to a destiny not less disagreeable than any of thes('
— namely, to the nearest churchyaid. However, I
yielded to the overpowering impulse. From my lofty
perch I could see the Primiero valley in* its wdiole
* length, ^ying almost at my feet, ff tiic ridge which
descended straight towards it proved, as I thought the
rocks indicated, to be easily practicable, I might reach
the valley in srvery short time, and save the trouble
of descending the tiresome Val di Pravitali. Time
was limited, and after one final glance, 1 committed
myself to the ridge. This ridge, 1 must explain, lies
between two deep trenches ; that which I have already
noticed as dividing me from the Sas Maor looked the
( more promising, if I coiA^ but effect a desceiA into it;
and, after a short climb, the sight of a few sheep which
had evidently strayed up toward the ridge from the

ms PEAKS OF SkRIMIEBO 445.

valley satisfied me that there must be a practicable
route. Dnlucjfily my impatience led mo to violate
that useful canon of mountaineering science which
prescribes the duty of keeping to the backbone of a»
difficult ridge rather than descending by the ribs.
Tempted by an apparently easy route, I made a di-
version towards the valley, and, after some complicated
hcramblings, found mjsclf at the edge of some tre-
mendous clifis, invisible from above, but, so for as I
could sec, impassable. There is a pleasure in these
accidental discoveries which is some reward to the
guidelebs traveller for his unnecessary wanderings. I
was xn'obably the first person who over reached a place
which is totally out of the pi^pcr route from any
given point to any other, and it is probable enough
that my performance may never bo repeated. I might
therefore. flatter myself that I alone of the human
race can enjoy t^e memory of one particular view—
not, it is true, more striking in itself than many other
views, but having the incalculable merit of being in a
sense my own personal pro^ierty. At such places, too,
one feels the true mountain charm *of solitude. If
my grasp had suddenly given way as I was craning
over those ghastly crags, 1 should have been consigned
to a grave far wilder than that * in the arms of Hel*
voUyn,’ and wfiich might as likely as not remain un-
discovered till there was ^little left to reward the
discoverer. A skeleton, aifew rags, the tattered relic#
of certain more coherent rags which just passed them*

246 TkE PLAY(^OUND OF EUROPE

selves off for clothes at Primiero, and perhaps the
mangled remains of a watch and an ^ice-axe, would
hardly be worth the trouble of a prolonged search.
These cheerful refloctions passed through my mind,
and added considerably to the influence of the strangely
wild scenery. They also helped to recall me to the
propriety of finding my way home, with a skeleton
still decently apparelled in flesh and blood -to say
nothing of Mr. Carter’s boots. Before' long I had
returned to my ridge, and was fighting my way down-
wards. It was an amusing bit of climbing until, just
above the point which 1 had marked as offering an
easy descent “to the valley, I was interrupted by a
sudden wall of rock. ^ It is an unpleasant peculiarity
of the Dolomite mountains that such vertical walls of
rock, which of course are invisible from above, fre-
quently run for great distances around the base of
the peaks. I had the unpleasant prospect of being
forced to return ouc(> more to the summit of the
mountain, as the only known lino of retreat; in which
case I must probably have spent the night ui)on the
rocks. As cert&in persons then at Primicro took a
lively interest in my safety, and would probably put
the worst interpretation on my absence, I looked
round eagerly for a mode of escape. I managed at
one point to creep so far downwards thftt if mattresses
had been spread bit the foot of the cliff, I could have
dropped without fear ; bi^^ the rocks were hard as
iron, and moreover, 'vhilc I was not quite certain that

THE TEAKS OF SEIMIEEO 24T.

the point thus attainable was really beyond the cliff,
I was qnitc certain that I could not climb back. To
be imprisoned on such a lod^e would be no joke. A
more circuitous route gave me a bettor chance, but
required some gymnastics. At one point, as 1 was
letting myself carefully down, a pointed angle of rock
made a vicious clutch at the seat of my trousers, and,
fatally interfering with my equilibrium, caused me to
grasp a projecting knob with my right and let my
ice-axe fall. With a single bound it bi)rang down the
cliff, but to my pleasure lodged in a rocky chasm some
hundred and iitty feet below me. In regaining it I
had some real (litheulty. 1 was forced to wriggle along
a steep slope of rock where my ^diolc weight rested on
the end joints of my lingers inserted into certain pock-
marks characteristic of this variety of rock, and, to be
candid, i^attly ux)on my stomach. This last support
gives very elBcio^t aid on such occasions. Just beyond
this place I fiad to perform the novel manoeuvre of
passing through the rock. A natural tunnel gave me
a sudden mcauH of escape from uhat appeared to bo
really a difficult pbicc. But, alas ' \^at is the use of
such descriptions ? How can I hope to persuade any-
body that 1 encountered any real difficulties? — the
next traveller who climbs these rocks will laugh at the
imbecile middle-aged gentleman who managed to get
into trouble amongst them^and, to say the truth, the
troubles were of no great accoimt. With an active
guide to hold out a hand above, and another to

*448 TBE PLAYdFSOUND OF EVBOPE

supply a prop below, I might have skipped over these
difficulties like the proverbial chomoisi As it was, I
reflected that whatever modes of progression I adopted,
there would be no one to criticise ; and, taking good
care to adopt the safest, 1 speedily rejoined my ice-axe,
and stood at a kind of depression in the ridge, from
which, as I had anticipated, there would be an easy
descent to the pastures l)clow. 1 uas in fact at the
point whore I had akcady seen the sheep; and it
would be unworthy of on Alpine tra^eller to describe
a route already traversed by such unadventurous
animals. All that I need say for the benefit of my
successors is this. The valley by which I ultimately
effected my descent is that which descends from the
col between the Sas Maor and the peak (to the north-
west) which I had just climbed. The only difficulty in
finding a route lies in the circumstance that •the valley
is brokep by certain walk of rook .which divide
it into terraces at diffeient elevations. It is rather
difficult for one coming from above to discover the
proper line. I wasted some precious time by follow-
ing sheep-tracks, under the impression that they led
downwards instead of upwards. The route, however,
will easily b6 struck out by reaching the valley as near
its head as possible, and then keeping .downwards by
the left bank of the stream, or rather watercourse. 1
ultimately reached Primiaro soon after dark, paving
tiad an interesting twelve hburs’ walk.

Primiero is situated, geographically speaking, on

THE PEAKS OE fSIMIEBO

the head waters of the Oismone, a tributary of the
Brenta. It lies, however, to be more precise, at a
distance of some thousand miles, more or less, and
two or three centuries from railways and civilisation.
1 fear thbt both in time and space it is rapidly making
up its leeway. Though many of the inhabitants told
us that they had never ventured beyond their valley,
others have pushed their audacity so far as to i)ay a
\ibit to Botzen. Nay, reform has progressed to the
pitch indicated by the possession of a bit of carriage-
road. IVo or three ardent leaders of the party of
pro^^esB go so far as recklessly to advocate the con-
nection of this road with others already constructed
upon the opposite side of the %nountain8. The con-
servatives who cling to patriarchal modes of life, dread
the opening which would thus be made for the corrupt
influences of civilisation. The innkeeper, in other
respects a nv)st> deserving man, has, 1 fcar,»prepared
for the anticipated influx of travellers by raising his
scale of prices. It will be long, however, before the
more solid inhabitants will yield ^o the spirit of
innovation. The fat old shopkeeper will continue, it
may be hoped, to sit intensely in the door of his shop
smoking those tough cigars that can dhly be kept
alight for a f(w seconds by energetic action of the
lungs ; he will read his queer little pjrinted news-sheet
of a lupnth or two back, ai^ will resent the intrusion
of customers who would disturb bis profound repose ;
the peasants will gather on Sundays to strike a huge

£60

THE PLAYOROXJND OF EUBOFE

ball about the streets and into the windows of the
loftiest houses; the women will kneel treverently on
the pavement outside the church, and keep an eye on
the passing stranger, whilst they diligently toll their
beads; and in the ^vintcr evenings there wDl be
friendly gatherings to spin the long-grown fleeces of
the queer lop-eared sheep. There is something about
these animals that has an inexpressible attraction for
me. As a rule, I prefer the more lively goat ; and
surely the prettiest of all Alpine scenes is the return
of the little herd to the village when the evening bells
are ringing, and each goat, after a few inquisitive
excursions into odd comers, to see whether any
change has taken plaee in its absence, betakes itself
with a few dogmatic wags of its beard to the bosom
of its family. Primioro, however, was just then filled
vdth flocks of sheep returning from the higli pastar-
8>gos. Tt;ey looked so tired and s}ec^, and were
evidently on such friendly terms with the ragged
shepherds who led them, that it was impossible not
to regard them as setting the tone of the country. I
had many talks with them on 'the hills, and they ex-
plained to me with much sense the proper mode of
enjoying the scenery. To lounge about in the rich
pasturages when the weather is fresh^ to climb the
rocks when the sim is hot and creep into cOol shadowy
ledges, and to gather for ^pleasant chat in th^ even-
ings is their mode of passing the long vacation. They
disapprove of the restless goats, who are fitter for the

THE PEAKS OFVBIMIBBO

25»

br§u:ing air of the northern Alps ; and Frimioro seems
to agree wit]} them. There was, indeed, a certain
amount of activity perceptible, especially amongst the
women, who were incessantly mangling hemp (I don’t
know whether that is tlie proper term) in the village
street. Bat the male population is distinctly of a placid
teinpprament. They don’t excite theinselvcs about news.
'Pile story of the siege of Faris would probably be fresh
to them when the first tourists arrived in the folloA\ing
summer. Tlicy caro little, as may be supposed,
even for their own mountains, and the doings of the
few climbers who luul distm'bed their repose seemed
to have excited no interest. Nobody knew or cared
anything about my little expedition, and 1 began to
fancy that there was something almost profane about
troubling these placid regions with my scrambling
propensiticj). Luckily I was roused by a very pleasant
meeting w'ith tljo most omniscient of monptaineer%
jifr. Ball joined us at Frimioro, and I laid certain
geographical perplexities before him, as the best pos-
sible authority. W^at, in the first place, could bo the
name of the peak 1 had climbed '? Even Mr. Ball did
not know, and the cause of his ignorance was speedily
explained by an intelligent native. The &ct was that
the peak had no name at all. But as our Mend ex-
plained, Herr Suda, who, if I mistake not, held an
officio^ position in some^way connected with the
Government survey, had proposed to the editor of the
map to bestow a name upon it ; and that name, as I

952

THE PLAYOJkOUND OF EUBOPF

heard mth great satisfaction, was the Gima di Ball. 1
sincerely hope that the name \iill bo adapted. Yet I
cannot say that it is in all respects appropriate. The
mountain, it is true, has many merits, and amongst
tliem the ratlicr questionable merit of a retiring
modesty. Of no moimtain that I have ever seen of
the same importance in a range is it so difficult to
obtain a view. When it appears, it has a vexatious
habit of looking lower than it is, and, still more pro-
vukiugly, of passing itself off as the mere hanger-on
of some peak of really inferior merits. Moreover, like
the conversation of some of my acquaintance, 4t is
totally deficient in point, and meanders carelessly away
until it may be said rather to leave off than to culmi-
nate. Its top is a rambUng plateau, which cannot
quite make up its mind to act like the summit of a
respectable mountain, and nobody had even erected a
eairu upqp it previous to my arrival, when 1 threw up
a hasty heap of stones. Yet it is distinctly a summ4>
cut off by deep and wide depressions from all its rivals,
and, moreover, it has one merit which may make it less
unworthy to bo called after Mr. Ball. By its iissist-
anco, as by that of its godfather, 1 was able to gain a
considerable insight into the geography of the district ;
and though 1 decline to enter into this rather dreary
subject, 1 may say shortly that I was prompted by his
remarks to one further ex]|^edition.

* On this occasion it was determined by the higher
powers that I should not be trusted alone. A guide

TBE PEAKS OF*PBIMIEEO m

was to be entrusted mth the duty of keeping me to
safe places, and repressing any tendency to short cots.
The person designated for this duty by universal
consent was one Oolcscl Eosso. Golesel is very poor
and very deserving ; he is willing, exceedingly cheer-
ful, full of conversation — which I regret to say was
imperfectly intelligible to his companion— a good
walker, asid a mighty bearer of weights. In short, ho.
has every virtue that a guide can have consistently
with a total and profound ignorance of the whole
theory and practice of mountain climbing. When I
firsf saw him 1 confess that, in spite of previous
A\arning, T was strui'k with amazement^ Jt nas little
that liis height was not above 4 feet 6 inclu's, and that
his general appearance might suggest that 1 was taking
with mo an animated scarecrow to frighten the eagles
of the cmgs. llis small stature and wizened face had
a strong resQmWance to the features of good Jiumourod
goblins, though he was little enough at home in the
ranges haunted by his fellows. Colesel, I suspect,
had been assigned to me out of charity, on the ground
that he was one of the poorest men in a district where
the people generally seem to enjoy a fair degree of
comfort. Although this principle is Scarcely com-
patible with gound views of political economy, 1 was
glad enough to give my companion ^a good tiu:u. But
I waa rather more startle^ by observing that he held
in his hand a shillalah ift place of an ice-a\e, therel?y
increasing his general resemblance to a good-tempered

2U

THE ELAYQBOUND OF EUBOPE

Paddy rather more than usually out at elbows ; and
that he regarded my rope and axe with hndissembled
wonder. It has so rarely happened to mo to walk
with any Alpine peasant who could not easily beat
me at every kind of climbing, that I still felt some
faith in Colesel, and put my best foot forwards during
the first part of my expedition, with the view of im-
pressing him witli a respect for my powers. The
proceeding was quite unnecessary; my guide never
showed the least propensity to give any opinion as to
my best route, but followed me with great cheerfulness
until 1 reached the glacier. Then, liaAing no nails in
his sliueh, he was unable to make much progress ; and
he finally broke down wlien I came to a climb about
equal in difficulty to the last rocks of the llrevent.
So much I feel bound to say for tho benefit of future
travellers ; but 1 repeat that I have good groihids for
snpposing'Colesel to be an excellent pdrtoi'. Anyone,
however, meditating an assault on the Frimiero Peaks
must cither go alone or bring guides from more satis-
factory districts. <

Of my further adventures it is enough to say that
I once more ascended tho \"ul di Pravitali, turned to
tho right throu^i tho haunted valley, climbed the
Fradusta, and thence crossing tho wild elevated
plateau from which some of the }ugh(>st peaks take
t^cir rise, descended by tlu^Passo delle Gornellv. and
S. Martino di Castrozza, an(f so retumed ioPrimiero.
The walk deserves notice, becauso it is perfectly easy.

TRE PEAKS OF PBIMIERO

25»

and gives a complete view of all the strange peaks I
have endeavovred to describe. I hoped at the time
that some of them might turn ont to be inaccessible.
Nay, T foolishly ventured to express that hope to the
Alpine Club. Straightway a gentleman, against whom
I have no other complaint, destroyed my vision by
climbing the wildest of all, the Cimon della Fala, and
has pronounced the Palle di S. Martino to be acces-
sible, and, what is worse, to be accessible by a route
which I had condemned. Far be it from me to con-
tradict him! but if the evil day must come, I will
havd no more guilt upon my conscience. I refrain,
therefore, from throwing out tlic sli^jitest hint to
future travellers of the asxurin^kiud. So far as I am
concerned, the last peaks of Primiero may remain
tmscalod as long as the British constitution flourishes,
or the Alpine Club continues to exist. Yet when all
the peaks arp dirabed, Primiero will bo scfy^cely lesv
attractive than of old. Every now and then it sud-
denly comes back to me in a vague dream, when 1
am more than usually struck with the absurdities of
English life, and my soul is vexed with paying bills,
wearing black hats, and attending evening parties. The
little town, with its background of peaks, shapes it-
8(df out of a tybacco-cloud at dead of night, when the
organ-grinders are dumb, and tbo^drowsy rolling of
the d^tant omnibus just ypnotrates the silence of my
study. Then I say to njyself, I will retire in my old
age to Primiero ; there will I take the airs of a Britisli

Q56

THE PLAY&BOTJND OF EUBOPE

milord ; I will get leave to occupy the old castle of
Fietra, and extend dignified hospitality to a few select
friends. But I will certainly be a prop of the strictest
conservative party ; 1 will oppose carriage roads tooth
and nail ; no newspapers shall he admitted within six
months of their publication; if possible, the post-
oifice shall be put down ; all imports shall bo for-
bidden, except, indeed, a little foreign tobacco ; and
the Primicrians shall oat their own mutton and be
clothed with their own fleeces. Freethinking of all
kinds shall be suppressed; I will set an admirable
example by regular attendance upon early mass —
But somewhere about this })oint the vision becomes
unsubstantial; the itiuks resolve tliemsclves once
more into commonxdace tobacco-smoke, and I mag-
nanimously consent, like Savage and Johnson, to
stand by my native country. London shall not be
deprived pf one member of the Alpine^ Clpb.

257

CILU'TER XI

RVNSET ON MONr BLANC

T PBOFEhR myself to be a loyal adherent of the ancient
Monarch of MonntainR, and, as sndij I hold aa a
primary article ot faith the doctrim' that no Alpine
bunimit is, as a ^liole, comparable in sublimity and
b< aiity to Mont I Jlanc. \\’ith all bib faultK and weak-
nesses, and in spite of a crowd of upstart rivals, he
btill do8er\e8 to i*eign in solitary supremacy. Such
an opinion seems to some mountaineers as gi’eat an
anachronism jvn *the creed of a French Legitimists
The coarse flattery of guide-books has done much to
surround him with vulgarising associations; even tho
homage of poets and painters has deprived his charms
of their early freshncRR, and climbers ]la^e ceased to
regard his conquest as a gloriouR, or, indeed, as any-
thing but' a mobt commonplace exploit. Afld yet Mont
Jllanc has merits which no unintelligent worship can
obscure, and which bind with growing fascination tho
unprejtyhccd lover of sceyry. Tried by a low, but
not quite a meaningless standard, tho old monarch
can still extort respect. He can ^ow a longer list of

’258

THE PLATO ItOUm) OF EVROPi:

killed aud wounded than any other mountain in tho
Alps, or almost than all other mountaiif^ put together.
In his milder moods he may bo approached with tole-
rable safety oven by the inexperienced ; but in angry
moments, when he puts on his robe of cloudy and
mutters with his voice of thunder, no mountain is
so terrible. E\on the light snow-wreaths that eddy
gracefully across his brow in lino weather sometimes
testify to an icy storm that ])iorces tlu' flesh and
freezes the very marrow of the bones. But wo should
hardly estimate the nuijesly of men or mountains by
the length of their butcher’s bill. Mont Blanc has
other and lees questionable claims on our respect. IIo
is the most solitary of all monntains, rising, Saul-like, a
head and shoulders above tho crowd of attendant peaks,
and yet within that single mass there is greater prodi-
gality of the sublimest scenery than in wlfnle moun-
'tain districts of inferior cb'vation. ‘Tim sternest and
most massive of cliffs, the wildest spu'cs of distorted
rock, bounding torrents of shattered ice, snowfields
polished and even as a sea-shell, are combined into a
whole of infinite variety aud yet of artistic unity. One
might wander for days, wore such wandering made
possible by other conditions, amongst his crowning
snows, and every day would present now combinations
of unsuspected grandeur.

u "Why, indeed, some civics will ask, should wo love
a ruler of such questionable attributes ? Scientifically
speaking, the so-called monarch is but so many tons

aUNSET ON MONT BLANC

259

of Muak f^raiiito determining a certain quantity of
aqueous precipitation. And if for literary x>urposes
it be permissible to personify a monstrous rock, tho
worship of such a Itfoloch has in it something un-
natural. In tho mouth of tho poet who first invested
him with royal honours, tho language was at least in
keeping. 13^ ron’s misanthropy, real or affected, might
identify lo\e of nature with hatred of mankind; and
a saAage, bhapelens and lifeli‘ss idol was a fitting
centre tor his (iithusiasm. But mo ha\e ceased to
bi'lieyo in the (Ihilde Harolds and the ^lanfrcds. Be-
come a hermit — denounce your siiecics, and shrink
from their contact, and jou mn^ consistently love the
peaks where human life exists on sufferance, and
whose message to the valleys is conveyed in wasting
torrents or crushing avalanches. Men of saner mind
who repuduite this anti-social creed should ^lovo the^
fertile valloys'anS grass-clad ranges better than thc'se
symbols of tho sternest desolation. All the enthusiasm
for tho wilder scenery, when it is not simple affecta-
tion, is the product of a lemx'torary x)h({^e of sentiment,
of which the justillcatiou has now ceased to exist. To
all which the zealot may perhaps reply most judiciously,
Be it as you please. Brefor, if you see fit, a Leicester-
shire meadow dk even a Lincolnshire fen to tho cliff
and glacier, and exalt tho view from tlie Crystal Palace
above the widest of Alpjftc 'panoramas. Natural
scenery, like a great work of art, scorns to be tied
down to any <iat-and-driod moral. To each spectator

260

THE PLAYOBOUND OF EUBOPE

it suggests a different train of thouglit and emotion,
varying as widely as the idiosyncrasy of the mind
affected. If Mont Blanc produces in you nothing hut
a sense of hopeless savagery, well and good ; confess
it honestly to yourself and to the world, and do not
help to swell the chorus of insincere ecstasy. But
neither should you (ptarrel with those in whom the
same sight produces omolions of a very different kind.
That man is the happiest and wisest who can draw
delight from the most varied objects : from the (piit't
handbov sc('uery of cnlli\aled England, or from the
boundless prairies of the \Vt st ; from the Thames or the
Amazon, Malvern or Mont Blanc, the Virginia Water
or the Atlantic Ocean* If tho reaction which mad<' men
escape with sudden t'cstasy from trim gardens to rough
mountain sides was somewhat eveesshe, yet there was
in it a core of sound feeling. Docs vot scihneo teach
*us mord’and more emphaiicully that nothing which is
natural can be alien to us who are part of nature?
Where does Ifont Blanc end, and where do I begin ?
That is the question which no metaphysiciaii has
hitherto succeeded in answering. But at least the
connection is close and intimate. Jle is a part of the
great machinery in whiih my physical frame is inex-
tricably involved, and not tho less intsiresting because
a part which l«,in unable to subdue to my purposes.
The whole universe, froi^the stars and the planets to
the mountains and the insects which creep about their
roots, is but a network of forces etemitUy acting and

SUNSET ON MONf BLANC

26»

roacting upon each other. The mind of man is a
musical instrument upon which all external objects
are beating out infinitely complex harmonics and
discords. Too often, indeed, it becomes a mere barrel-
organ, mechauically repeating the tunes which have
once been impressed upon it. J3at in jiroportion as it
is more vigorous or delicate, it should retain its scii-
sibility to all the impulses which may be co^ivoycd to*
it from the most distant sources. And certainly a
healthy organisation should not be deaf to those more
solemn and melanclioly voices which speak through
the ttildcst aspects of nature. ‘ Our sweetest songs,’
as Hludley saj s in his best mood, * are tl^ose Avhich tell
of saddest thought.’ No poetry «r art is of the highest
order in w’hich there is not blended some strain of
melancholy, oven to sternness. Shakosiieare would
not be Shako»peui^c if it were not for that profound
sense of the ^trausitory in all human ni!ai^*s wliich
appears in the finest sonnets and in his deepest dra-
matic utterances. When he tells us of the unsub-
stauti^il fabric of the great globe itself, or the glorious
morning which ‘ flatti'rs the mountain tops with
sovereign eye,’ only to bo hidden by the ‘basest
clouds,’ or, anticipating modem geologists, observes

^ The hungry ocean gain

Advantage on the kingdom of the sliore,

he is merely put^g into words the though Is obscurely

present to the of e^ry watcher of the ctomaP

mountains whi<^ have outlasted so many genera-

THE FLAYOMOUND OF EUBOFE

tions, and are yet, like all other things, hastening to
decay. Tlio moimtains npiesdit tho^ indomitable
force of nature to uhieli wo are forced to adapt our-
selves ; they speak to man of his littleness and his
ephomcrul existence ; they rouse us from the placid
dontent in which we may he lapped ■when contemplat-
ing the fat fields which we have coiupiered and tbe
rivers which wo have forced to run according to our
notions of convenience. And, therefore, they should
suggest not sheer misanthropy, as they did to Byron,
or an outburst of revolutionary ])asBion, as they did to
his teacher Bousseau, hut that sense of awestruck
humility which befits such petty creatures ns otirselves.

It is true, indeed, ^hat kfont Blanc sometimes is
too savage for poetry. lie can speak in downright
tragic earnestness ; and any oau* uho has been caught
in a storm on some of his higher icofields„who has
trembled ^at the deadly swoop of thc^ gale, or at the
ominous sound which heralds an avalanche, or at the
remorseless settling down of the blinding snow, will
agree that at times ho passes the limits of the terrible
which comes fai/ly within the range of art. There are
times, however, at which one may expect to find pre-
cisely the rig^t blending of the sweet and the stern.
And in particular, there aro those exquisite moments
when the sunset is breathing over his calm snowfields
its * ardours of re^ and love.’ Watched from beneath,
Iho Alpine glow, as cverybBiy knows*, is of e:^uisite
beauty ; but unfortunately the spectacle ^as become

f

mUNSUT ON M0^3 BLANC

a little too popular. The very Bunset Bcems to Bmcll
of ‘ Biedeker’s pnido.* The flesh is YtGsik ; and the most
sympathetic of human beings is apt to feel a slight
sense of revulsion when the French gnestfl at a tahle-
(Vhote arc exclaiming in chorus, ‘ Magnifiquc, superbe ! ’
and the (Jennans chiming in with ‘ Wunderechen ! ’
and the British tourist patting the old mountain on the
back, and the American protesting that he has shinier
sunsets at home. Not being of a specially sympathetic
nature, T had frequently wondered how that glorious
spectacle would look from the solitary top of the
monarch himself. This summer I was fortunate
enough, owing to the judicious arrangements of one of
his most famous eourturs- old friend and com-
rade ]!ir. (labriel Loppf — to be able to give an answer
founded on personal experience. The result was to
me so interesting that I shall venture — rash as the at-
tempt may be- -j|p gi\e tome account of a phenomenon
of extraordinary beauty which has hitherto been wit-
nessed by nut more than some half-dozen human beings.

It was in the early morning of August 6, 1878, that
I left Fhamonix for the purpe se. Thts.sun rose on one
of those fresh dewy dawns unkiiown except in the
mountains, when the buoyant air seems as it were to
penetrate every pore in one's body. I could almost
say with Sir (jalahad —

•

ThiH mortal armour that I wear,

Tills weight and hiA, this heart and eye<}^

Are touch'd and turn’d to finest air.

•264

THE PLAtSbOUND OF EUROPE

The hctivy, sodden framework of flesh and blood which
I languidly dragged along London stroots has under-
gone a strange transformation, and it is with scarcely
a conscious effort that I breast the monstrous hill
which towers above me. The pi nowoods give out
iheir aromatic scent, and the little glades are deep in
ferns, wild-flowers and strawberries. Even here, the
latent terrors of the mountains are kept in mind by
the huge boulders which, at some distant day, have
crashed like cannon-balls through the forest, llut the
great mountain is not now indulging in one of his
ponderous games at bowls, and the soft carpetiflg of
tender vegetation suggests rather luxurious indolence,
and, maybe, recalls lafy picnics rather than anymore
strenuous memories. Before long, however, we
emerged from the forest, and soon the bells of a jolly
little company of goats bade us farewell on the limits
•f the cisrilised world, as we stepped ig;>on the still
frozen glacier and found ourselves fairly in the pre-
sence. We were alone with the mighty dome, dazzling
our eyes in the ln^rilliant sunshine, and guarded by its
sleeping avalanches. Lucidly there was no temptation
to commit tlie abopiination of walking ‘ against time ’
or racing anjr rival caravan of climbers. The whole
day wds before us, for it would have be^^n undesirable
to reach the chiljy summit too early ; and wo could
^ord the unusual luxury of lounging up klont J31auc.
We took, thope, full advamage of our opportunities.
We could peer into the blue depths of crevasses, so

SUNSET ON MONf BLANC 2(i6

beautiful that one might long for such a grave, were
it not for the Awkward x>rQ3poct of having one’s bones
put under a glass case by the next generation of scien-
tilio travellers. We could record in our memories the
strange forms of the shattered seracs, tho»e groteKtjUo
ioo-masscs which seem to suggest that the monarch
himself has a certain clumsy sense of humour. We
lingered longest on the summit of the Dome du Cioute,
itself a most majestic mountain were it not overawed
by its gigantic neighbour. There, oii^the few ledges
of rock which are left exposed in summer, tlie thunder
has left its scars.' Tiie lightning’s strokes have covered
numbers of stune-s with little glass-like heads, showing
that this must he one of its favourite haunts. Hut on
this glorious summer day the lightnings were at rest ;
and we could peacefully count over the vast wilderness
of peaks which already stretched far and wide beneath
our feet. ■ Thp liyvor mountain ranges ax)pea|fcd to b^
drawn up in parallel ranks like the sea waves heaved
in calm weather by a monotonous ground-swell. Each
ridge was blended into a uniform hue by the inter-
vening atmo8i)hcre, sharidy defined along the summit
line, and yet only distinguished from its predecessor
and successor by a delicate gradation of tone. Such
a view produce^ the powerful but shadowy im];>resbiou
which one expects from an opium dream. The vast
porspeq^ive drags itself out to an horizon so distant
as to blond imperceptibly ^'ith the lower sky. It has*
a vague suggestion of rhythmical motion, strangely

^CO Tlfli ^LAYaIlOU^D OF r.UnOFE

combined Tritli eternal calm. Drop a pebble into a
perfectly still sbeet of 'water ; imatriiic tl|at each ripple
is supplanted by a lofty moimlaiu i an fit', of wbkli nil
detail is lost in purple bazo, {ind that the furthest
uiidulathms molt into tho mrsloiious infinite. One
gazts \vith a sluso of soothing mchnicholy ns one
listens to plainthe modulations of st me air of linked
* sweetness long drawn out.’ Vtir aw'ay among tho
hills wo could see long roachts of tlu> jjoacoful Lake of
Genova, just gleaming thrtmgh tho \ar} ing pm’ple ; but
at our backs the icy crest of the gvitit mountain still
rose proudly nbo\ouB, to remind us that oui- task was
not yet finished. Fortunately for us, scarcely a cloud
was to ho soon und(^ the enormous concave of tho
dark blue h<'av<*ns ; a few light stroaniors of cirrus
woro moving gently o^ or our heads in thoM*ionulo
abyss( s fi’om which they n<'^( r condesco'tel eyn h) the
IjOftiest of Alj)ino summits. Faint o^d evanescent as
they might be, they possibly had an enninous nu*aning
for the future, but the pr«‘sont was our own ; the little
pufifs of wind that whispered round some lofty ledges
were keen ('uough in cpiality to rerainel us of possible
frost-bites, but Iboy bad scarcely force enough to ex-
tinguish a lucifer match.

Carefully calculating our time, wo ailvaneed along
the ‘ dromedary’s hump ’ and stepped upon tho cul-
minating ridge of the momitain about an hour before
Sunset. Wo had time to kdlcct ourselves, to* awake
our powers of observation, and to prepare for tho

SUNSET ON MONT*liLANC

‘207

grand spectacle, for which preparations were already
being niad(>. ^hcre had been rehearsals enough in
all conbcienco to hoenro a iicrfcct pcrfonnancc. Fc r
luillious of ages the lamps liud ];e(’n lighted and tlie
transpumicies had la en shown with no Innnan eye
to observe or hand to applaud. Twice, 1 beIi(*\o only
twice, before, an audience had tabt n its place in this
lofty gallery ; but on one of thoK’ occasions, at hast,
the observers had been loo uuwi‘11 to do justice to the
spectacle. The other pai ty, of which the chief member
was a French man of science, Dr. Martens, had bem
obliged to retreat hastily before the lij’hts were extin-
guished ; but their fragmentary account had excited
our curiosity, and we had the i)lcanure*of virifyiug
the most strildng phenomciK’n which they dcKTibed.
And now. w(! waited eagerly for the perforiuanco to
coranieuc^j ; the ctdd was sufiicitut to freeze the wine
in our l)0ttle8, but in still air the cold is but little felt,
and by walking briskly up and down and ado]iting the
gymnastic exorcise in which tlu' London cabman di'-
lights in cold wither, wo were able to keep up a suffi-
cient degree of circulation. I say ^we,’ but I am
libelling the most enthusiastic member of the i>arty.
Loppu sat resolutely on the snow, at thcA'isk, ns we
might liuve thought, of following the example of Lot’s
wife. Superior, as it appeared, to all tho frailties
which beset tho human frame suddenly plunged into
u temperature I know notf how many degrees htdow*
freezing-point, he w'orked witli ever increasing fury in

•268

THE PLAYBBOUND OF KUBOPK

a desperate attempt to fix upon canvas some of the
magic beauties of the scene. Glancing from earth to
heavoik and from north to south, slielcliing with breath-
less rapidity the appearance of the ('astern ranges, and
then wheeling round like a weathercock to make hasty
notes of the western clouds, breaking out at times into
uncontrollable exclamations of delight, or reproving
his thoughtless companions when tlu'ir opaque bodies
eclipsed a whole quarter of the heavens, he enjoyed, J
should fanej', an hour of as keen delight as not often
occurs to an enthusiastic lover of the sublime in
nature. "'tN'e laughed, envied and admired, and he
escaped frost-bites. I wish that T could substitute
his canvas — though, 4o say the truth, I fear it would
cxliibit a slight confusion of the points of the com-
pass -for ray words ; but, as that is impossible, I must
(‘ndeavour brieliy to indicate the most impressive
features pf the scenery. My readcj:;t^ nnist kindly set
their imaginations to work in aid of feeble language ;
for even the most eloexuent language is but a poor
substitute for a painter’s brush, and a painter’s brush
lags far behind these grandest aspects of nature. Tho
easiest way of obtaining tho impression is to follow
in my stepc for in watching a sunset from Mont
Blanc one feels that one is passing one of those rare
moments of life at which all tho surrounding scenery
is instantaneously and indelibly photographcij on the
'mental retina by a process which no second-hand
operation can even dimly transfer to others. To
explain its nature requires a word or two of preface.

SUNSET ON MONf BLANC 209*

The ordinary view from Mont Bla>nc is not bpccially
picturesque — and for a sufficient reason. The archi-
tect has concentrated his whole energies in producing
a single imi)rc‘>sion. Everything has been so arranged
as to int('nsify the seuho of vast height and an illimit-
able horizon. In a good old guide-book T have read,
on the authority (I think) of I’liny, that the higltest
mountain in the world is 300,000 feet abo\o the sea ;
and one is apt to fancy, on ascending Mont Blanc,
tiiat the giu'ss is not so far out. The effect is perfectly
unique in the Alps ; liut it is produced at a certain
saerffice. All dangerous livals hav<* l)een removcfl to
such a distanci'as to l)oconie appanmtlj^ insignificant.
No grand mass can I e admitted into the foreground ;
for the sense of vast size is gradually forced upon you
by the infinite ninltiplieity of detail, ifont Blanc
must bef like an Asiatic despot, alone and supreme,
with all inforio* pt'aks reverently couched his feek
If a man, pre^iovl&ly as ignorant of geography as a boy
who has just left a public school, could bi‘ transported
for a moment to the summit, his impression would bo
that the Alps resembled a village of a hundred hovels
grouped round a stupendous cathedral. Eully to ap-
preciate this effi ct re(piires a c('rtain fafbiliarity with
Alpine sceneiy, for otherwise the effect produced is
a dwarfing of tho inferior mountains into pettiness
insteaid of an exaltation of Mont Blanc into almost por-
tentous magnificence. Grouped around you at unequal
distances lie innumerable white patches, looking like
the tented encampments of scattered army corps. Hold

•270

THE rLAY(}ROUHD OF EruOPE

lip a glovo at arm'a length, and it will cover the whole of
each a group. On the boundless plain' beneath (I sa}'
‘ plain/ for the greatest mountain system of Europe
appears to have subsided into a rather uneven plain),
it is a mere spot, a tridiug dent upon the huge shield
on whose central boss you arc placed. But you know,
though at first you can hardly realise the knowledge,
that that insignificant «liscolor.ition represents a
whole mountain district. One spot, for example, re-
presents the clustered ]>eaks of the Bernese Oberland ;
a block, ns big as a pel)l)le, is the soaring Jungfrau,
the terrible mother of avalanches; a barely dis-
tinguibhable , wrinkle is the reverse of those snowy
wastes of the Bhhnli? Alp, which seem to bo sus-
pended above the toiTace of Borne, thirty miles away ;
and that little whitish streak represents the greatest
ice-stream of the Alps, tlio huge Aletscli glacibr, whoso
monstrous proportions have been irnffrossed upon you
by hours of laborious plodding. One patch contains
the main sources from which the llhine descends to the
German Ocean, |wo or tluree more overlook the Italian
plahis and encircle the basin of the Po ; from a more
distant group flows the Danube, and from your feet
the snows melt to supply the Bhono. You feel that
you are in some souse looking down upon Europe from
Rotterdam to VoBico and from Varna to Marseilles,
^be vividness of the irapresi^on depends entirel>y upon
the degree to which you can realise the immense size
of all these immeasurable details. Now, in the mom-

SUNSET ON ?IONf SLANG

tlio usual Ihuo for iiu abcciii, ilio details uvo
necessarily vague, because the iioldcst part of the
view lies between the sun and the spectator. ]3ut in
the evening light each ridge*, and peak, and glacier
stands out with startling distinctness, and each, thtre-
fo/(*, is laden with its weight of old association. There,
for example, was the grim Itratterhorn : its anguhvr
dimensions ww(' of initnile'imal mimitenebs: it\\<»uld
])nsKlo a mathematician to say how small a sjiac* its
image would occa])y on his vi'tina ; but, w’ithin that
small space, its form was delined w’ith exquisite ac-
curacy; and we could n'coguise the precise conlignra-
tion of the wild lab^ riulh of rocky ridge;^ up which the
earlier adventurers forced iheiP way from the Italian
side. And thus we not onlj' knew*, but hdt that at
our feet was hing a vast blice of the map of EuroiM*.
The elTccft was to exaggejale the apparent height, till
the view had about it soimdhing porteidions and
unnatural : it seemed to be such a Aiew as could be
granted nottven to mountaineers of earthly moxrld,
but rather to some genie from the ‘^Nrahian Nights,’
Hying high above a world tinted with the magical
colouring of oM romance.

Thus distinctly drawn, though upon *so minute a
scale, every ruck and b1oi)c preserved its true xalue,
and the impression of stux>endoio height became
almosttoppressivo as it was forced upon the imagina-
tion that a whole w'orld o^ monntoius, each of them a
mighty mass in itself, lay couched far beneath our feet,

«72

THE ELAYdfEOUND OF EVBOPE

reaching across tbo whole diameter of the vast jmno-
rama. And now, whilst occupied in diinking in that
strange sensation, and allowing our minds to recover
their equilibrium from the first htnggering shock of
astonishment, began the strange spectacle of which
we were the sole witnesses. One long delicate cloud,
suspended in mid-air just lielow the sun, was gradu-
ally adorning itself with iwismatic colouring. Eound
the limitless horisson ran a faint fog-bank, unfortu-
nately not quite thick enough to produce that depth
of colouring which boinetimes makes an Alpine sun-
set inexprcbbibly gorgeous. The weather - it was the
only complaint we had to make — erred on the side of
fineness. But the colouringwas brilliant enough to pre-
vent any thoughts of serious disappointment. The long
series of western ranges melted into a imiform hue as
the sun declined in their 3'ear. Amidst thcir> folds the
Jjake of geneva became suddenly lighted up in a faint
yellow gleam. Q’o the oast a lJue gause seemed to
cover A alley by valley as they sank into night and the
interv'cning ridges rose W’ith increasing distinctness,
or rather it seemed that some fluid of exquisite delicacy
of colom* and substance was flooding all the lower
country beitbath the great mountains. Peak by peak
the high snowfields caught the rosy glow and shone
like signal-fires ^icross the dim breadths of delicate
twilight. Like Xerxes, wo looked over the countless
host sinking into rest, bu^ with the rather different
reflection, that a hundred years hence they would

SUNSET ON MONT BLANC 213*

probably bo doin^; much the same thing, whilst we
should long have ceased to tako any interest in the
performance. And suddenly began a more startling
phenomenon. A vast cone, with its apex pointing
away from us, seemed to be suddenly cut out from
the world beneath ; night was within its borders and
the twilight still all round; the blue mists wore
quenched whore it fell, and for the instant we could
scarcely tell what was the origin of this strange ap-
pearance. Some unexpected change st*emcd to have
taken place in the i^i'ogramme; as 1 hough a great
fold in the curtain had suddenly given way, and
dropiied on to i)art of the scenery. i)f course a
moment’s reflection explained the meaning of this
uncanny intruder ; it was the giant shadow of ^font
Blanc, testifying to his bupremacy over all meaner
eminonceif. It is diilicult to say how sharply marked
was the outline, and how startling was the 'bontrast *
between this pyramid of darkness and the faintly-
lighted spaces beyond its influence ; a huge inky blot
seemed to have suddenly fallen upon dtlie landscape.
As w’o gazed we could see it move. It swallowed up
ridge by ridge, and its sharp point crept steadily from
one landmark to another down the broad Valley of
Aosta. We were standing, in fact, on the point of the
gnomon of a gigantic sundial, the face of which was
formed l^gr thousands of square miles of mountain and
valley. So uh'ar was the ouilino that, if figures had
been scrawled upon glaciers and ridges, wo could have

T

%74 THE PLAYSbOUND OF EUBOPE

f

told the time to a second; indeed, we wtoe half>
inclined to look for onr own shadows si a distance so
great that whole \illagc8 would be represented by a
scarcely distinguishable speck of colouring. The hiige
shadow, looking e\er more fitrnnge and magical, struck
the distant Bccca di Nona, and then climbed into the
daik region wlierc' the broader shadoAV of the world
w’as using into the eastcj’n sky. some singular
efiftet of pcrspecthe, rays of dai’knc'ss seemed to bo
converging from above our heads to a point immc>
diately abo\o the apex of the shadowy cone. Fora
time it seemrd that there was a kind of anti-sun in
the east, popring out not light, but deep shadow as it
rose. The apex sooil* reached the horizon, and then
to our surprise btgan climbing tlic distant sky.
Would it never stop, and was Mont Blanc capable of
overshadowing not only the earth but the sky ? For
<- a minute or two I fancied, in a beyildered way, that
this unearthly object would fairly rise from the
ground aird climb upwards to the zenith. But
rapidly the ligjhts went out upon the great army of
mountains; the snow all round took the laid hue
which immediately succeeds an Alpine sunset, and
almost at “a blow the shadow of Mont Blanc w’as
sw’allowed up in the general shade of night. The dis-
play had ceased suddenly at its culminating point,
and it was higlily expedient for the spectators to re-
tire. We had no time to^ose if we would get off the
summit before the grip of the frost should harden the

SUNSET ON MONW BLANC '

275

enowB into an ice-crust ; and in a minute we were

»

running jind ^sliding downwards ut our best pace to-
wards the familiar Corridor. Yet as we went the
sombre magnificence of tbe sc^cry seemed for a time
to increase. AVe were between the day and the night.
The western heavens were of the most brilliant blue
with spaces of transparent green, whilst a few scat-
leri'd «*loudlfcls glowed as if with iiitovnal fire. To the
cast the night rushed up furiously, and it was difficult
to imagine that the dark purple sky was really cloud-
less and not blacdccned by the rising of some porten-
touststorm. That it was, in fact, cloudless, appeared
from tin* iiiibrokeu disc of Iho full moon, which, if I
may venture to say so, had a Viid of sifly expression,
as though it w(‘ro a bad imitation of the sun, totally
unable to keep the darkness in ordt'r.

Wilh how sad step'^, O moon, tliou rlimb'st the sky,

llow silently and with how Wdu a lace !

as Hidni'y cvcUiims. And truly, set in that strange
gloom the moon looki'd wan and miserable enough ;
the lingering sunlight showc'd by contrast that she
was but a fei’ble source of illumiuatifin ; and, but for
her half-comic look of helplessness, we might have
sympathised with the astronomers who jtell us tliat
she is nothing but a vast i)crambulating tombstone,
proclaiming to all miinkind in the words of the familiar
epitaph, * As I am now, 3'ou soon shall be ! ’ To speak
after tfie fashion of eaiiy mythologies, one mighf
fancy that some supernatural cuttlefish was shedding

^6

TEE PLATO^OUND OF VWROPE

his ink through tho heavens to distract her, and that
the poor moon had hut a had chance^ of escaping
his clutches. Hurrying downwards with occasional
glances at the sky, we had soon reached tho Grand
Plateau, whence our further retreat was secure, and
from that wildest of mountain fastnesses vro saw tho
last striking spectacle of the evening. In some sense
it was perhaps the most impressive of all. As all
Alpine tiwellers know, tho Grand Plateau is a level
space of evil omen, einhraced hy a vast semicircle of
icy slopes. The avalanches which occasionally descend
across it, and which have caused more than* one
catastrophe, ^ive it a had reputation ; and at night
the icy jaws of the grint mountain seem to h(j enclos-
ing you in a fatal emhrace. At this moment there
was something half grotesque in its sternness. Light
and shade were contrasted in a manner so held as to
he almost hizarre. One half of th^ cirque was of a
pallid white against the night, which was rushing up
still blacker and thicker, except that a few daring stars
shone out like fiery sparks against a pitchy canopy ;
tho other half, reflecting the hlack night, was relieved
against tho last gleams of daylight ; in front a vivid
hand of hlhod-red light burnt along tho horizon,
beneath which seemed to lie an abyss of mysterious
darkness. It was tho last struggle botwcon night and
^day, and the night seemed to assume a more^hastly
ferocity as the day stink, ^ale and cold, before its
antagtHiist. The Grand Plateau, indeed, is a flt scene

SUNSET ON MONT BLANC

for Buch contrasts ; for there in mid-day you may feel
tlio reflection of the blinding snows like the blast of a
furnace, where a fuw hours before you were realising
the keenest pangs of frost-bite. The cold and the
niglit were now the conquerors, and the angry sunset-
glow seemed to grudge the victory. The light rapidly
faded, and the darkness, no longer seen in the strange
contrast, subsided to its ordinary tones. The magic
was gone ; and it was in a oommonidace though lovely
summer night that we reached our resting-place at the
Grajids kfulets.

IVti felt that we had learnt some lU’w secrets as to
the beauty of mountain sceney% but tlie secrets were
of that kind which not even the initiated can reveal.
A great poet might interpret the sentiment of the
mountains into song ; but my poet could pack iiib)
any definite proposition or scries of propositions the
strange thoif^hlS that rise in different spdbtators oT
such a scene. All that 1 at last can say is that soflie
indefinable mixture of exhilaration and melancholy
pervades one’s mind ; one feels like a kind of chc<‘rful
Tithonus ‘at the quiet limit of the world,’ looking
down from a magic elevation iipou the ‘ dip fields about
the homes

Of lAppy men that lm\c the power to die.'

One is still of the earth, earthy^ for freezing toes
and sifbw-parched noses ^rc lively reminders that on^
has not become an immortal. Even on the top of
Mont Blanc one may be a very long way from heaven.

2?8

THE PLAYQBOUNI) OP EUTWPE

And yet the mere physical elevation of a league above
the sea level seems to raise one by moments into a
sphere above the petty interests of everyday life.
Why that should be so, and by what strange threads
of association the reds and blues of a gorgeous sunset,
the fantastic shapes of clouds and shadows at tliat
dizzy height, and the dramatic changes that swe<>p
over the boundless region Ixmcath your feel, should
stir you like mysterious music, or, indei'd, why music
itself should have such power, I leave to philosophers
to explain. This only I know, tliat evtn tlu memory
of that summer evening on the top of Mont Jllauc has
power to plunge me in^o strange reveries not to l)e ana-
lysed by any capacity, and still loss capabh* of expres-
sion by the help of a few black remarks on white paper.

One word must ho added. The ( xpodition 1 have
described is perfectly safe and easy, if, but only if, two
or three Conditions bo scrupulously* observed. The
wtathcr, of course, must bo faultless ; the snow must
be in perfect order or a retreat may bo difficult ; and,
to guard against*unforeseeu contingencies which are so
common in high mountains, there should be a suffi-
cient force of guides more trustworthy than the gentry
who hang about Chamonix driuking-jilaces. If these
precautions bo neglected, serious accidents would be
easy, and at any rate there would be a very fair chance
(hat the enthusiastic lover qf scenery would Id&ve his
toes behind him.

m

CITAPTEll XIT

TICE ALPH IN WINTER

Men of Bcionco liav«i recently called our attention to
the plicnoinena of dual consdousnoss. To the un-
Bcieulillc mind it often seciUB that consciousness in
its normal state must be rather multiple than dual.
We lead, habit ually, many lives at mu*c, which are
blended aiid inti'realated in sti'tnK(>ly complex fasliion.
Particular moods join most naturally, ]iot with those
which are contiguous in time, but with those which
t)WO a ,<fj^)outan( Ous aflinity to their identity of com-
position. WliOM in my study, for exampti?, it often
seems as if that part alone of the past possessed
reality which had elapsed within the same walls. All
else — the noisy life outside, nay, even the life, some-
times rather noisy too, in the next room, becomes
dreamlike. I can fancy that iny most intimate self
has never existed elsewhere, and that lill other ex-
periences recorded by memory have occurred to other
solves in parallel but not continuojis currents of life.
And after a holiday, the day on which wo resume
harness joins on to the* day on which we dropped il,
and the interval fades into a mere hallucination.

There are times when this power (or weakness)
has a singular charm. We can ta1{e up dropped
threads of life, and cancel the weary monotony of
daily drudgery; though we camiot go back to the
well-beloved past, we can place ourselves in imme-
diate relation with it, and break the barriers t^hich
close in so remorselessly to hide it from longing eyes.
To some of us the charm is worked instantaneously
by the bight of an Alpine peak. The dome of Mont
Blanc or the crags of the Wetterhoru arc spells that
disperse the gathering mists of time. Wo can gaze
upon them till we ‘beget the golden time again.’
And there is this peculiar fascination about the
eternal mouritauis. Tliey never recall the trifling or
the %algarising association of old da}s. 3'hore are
times when the bare sight of a letter, a ring, or an
old bouse, overpowers some people with the rush of
early memories. I am not so hapj^iily^ constituted,
ilolies of *the conventional kind have a perverse trick
of reviving those petty incidents which one uould
rather forgot. They recall the old follies that still
make one blush,* or the hasty word which one would
buy back with a year of the life that is loft. Our
English fields and rivers have the same malignant
freakishness. Nature in our little island is too much
dominated by the petty needs of humanity to have an
affinity for the simpler and deeper emotions.^ With
the Alps it is otherwise. * There, as after a hot
summer day the rocks radiate back their stores of

THE ALPS IN Winter

281*

heat, every peak and forest seems to be still redolent
with the most fragrant perfumo of memory. The
trifling and vexatious incidents cahnot adhere to such
mighty monuments of bygone ages. They retain
whatever of higli and tender and pm*o emotion may
have once boon associated with them. If T were to
invent a now idolatry (rather a needless task) I
should prostrate myself, not before beast, or ocean,
or sun, but before one of those gigantic masses to
which, in spite of all reason, it is impossible not to
attribute some sbadow’y personality. Their voice is
mysfic and has found discordant interiu'eters ; but to
mo at least it speaks in tones at onc^ more tender
and more awe-inspiring than* that -of any mortal
l(>acher. The loftiest and sweetest strains of Milton
or AVordsworth may bo more articulate, but do not
lay so foft'iblc a grasp upon my imagination.

In the siyunvir there arc distractions. iTho busi-*
ness of eating, drinking, and moving is carried on by
too cumbrous and clanking a machinery. But I had
often fancied that in the winter, j»hen the whole
region becomes part of dreamland, the voice would be
more audible and more continuous. Access might be
attained to those lofty reveries in whibh the true
mystic imagiryss time to be anniliilated, and rises
into beatific visions untroubled by tjio accidental and
the ten^rary. Pmc undeflned emotion, indilferent
to any logical embodime'ht, undisturbed by external
perception, seems to belong to the sphere of the

^282 THE VLAYQSOVND OF EUROPE

transcendental. Few people have the power to rise
often to such regions or remain in thfom long. The
indulgence, when habitual, is x)erilouBly enervating.
But most people arc amply secured from the danger
by incaiiacity for the enjoyment. The temptation
assails very exceptional natures. "We — the positive
and matter-of-fact part of tho world — need be no
mor«' afraid of dreaming too much than tho London
rough need be timed against an excessive devotion
to the Fine Arts. Our danger is the reverse. Let
us, in such brief moments as may bo ])ropitions, draw
the ciivtains which msiy excludo the outside worlit,
and abandon ourntlvcs to tho imssing luxury of
abstract meditation ; or rather, for tho word medita-
tion suggests too near an approach to ordinary thought,
of passive surrender to an emotional current.

The winter Aljis provide some such curtain. The
*very daytight has an unreal glow. Tho cioisy summer
life is suspended. A scarce audible hush seems to be
whispered throughout tho region. Tho first glacier
stream that you meet strikes tho keynote of the pre-
vailing melody. In summer tho torrent comes down
like a charge of cavalry — all rush and roar and foam
and fury— turbid with the dust ground from tho
mountain’s flanks by the ice-share, and spluttering
and writhing in its bed like a creature in the agonies
•of strangulation. In winter it is transformed into
tho likeness of one of tho gentle brooks that creeps
round the roots of Scawfoll, or even one of those spark-

THE ALPS IN WINTER

283*

ling tront-BtreamB tliat slide throngh a water-meadow
beneath Stonehenge. It is perfectly transparent. It
babbles roiuid rocks instead of clearing them at a
bound. It can at most fret away the edgi's of the huge
white pillows of snow that cap the boulders. High up it
can only show itself at intervals between smothering
snow-beds which form continuous bridges. Even the
thundering fall of the Jlandeck becomes a gentle
thread of pure uator creeping behind a broad sheet
of ice, more delicately carved and moulded than a
lady’s veil, and so diminished in volume that one
woiufers how it has managed to festoon the brinid
rock faces with so vast a mass of pepdent icicles.
'I'he pulse of the moxnitain i is feating low* ; the huge
arteries through which the liJe-hlood courses so
furiously in summer have become a world too wide
for this trickle of pellucid w'ater. If one is still forced
to attribute psM'Sflnulity to the peaks, llu'y .w clearly*
in a state of siispendod animation. They are spell-
bound, dreaming of dim abysses of past time' or of
the summer that is to recall them to. life. They are
ill a trance like that of the Ancient klarincr when he
heard strange spirit voices couvorsing overhead in
mysterious murmurs.

This dreamhke iiupresfion is everywhere pervad-
ing and dominant. It is in propovtiou to the con-
trary impression of stu^endons, if latent, energy,
which the Alps make upon one in summer. Then
when an avalanche is discharged down the gorges of

•284

TEE PLAYbBOUND OF EUBOPE

the Jungfrau, one fancies it the signal gun of a volley
of artillery. It seems to betoken tke presence of
some huge animal, crouching in suspense but in per-
petual vigilance, and ready at any moment to sprmg
into portentous actuity. In the winter the sound
recalls the uneasy movement of the same monster,
now lapped in sevenfold dreams. It is the rare in-
terruption to a silence which may be felt — a single
indication of the continued existence of forces which
are for the time lulled into absolute repose. A quiet
sea or a moonlit forest on the plains may give an
impression of slumber in some sense even deeper.
13ut the impression is not so vhid because less per-
manent and less fofvibly contrasted. The lowland
forest will soon return to such life as it possesses,
which is after all little more than a kind of entomo-
logical buzzing. The ocean is the only rival of the
•mountains. But the six monthso paralysis which
locks up the energies of the Alps has a greater dignity
than the uncertain repose of the sea. It is as proper
to talk of a gea of moimtaius as of a mountain
wave; but the comparison always seems to mo
derogatory to the scenery which has the greatest
appoaranco^of organic imity. The sea is all very well
in its way ; but it is a fidgety uncon^fortable kind of
element ; you cgn see but a little bit of it at a time ;
^and it is capable of being horribly monoton^^us. All
poetry to the contrary notwithstanding, I hold that
even the Atlantic is often little better than a bore.

TEE ALPS IN WINTER

285*

Its sleep chiefly suggests absence of the most un-
dignified of alUailmonts ; and it never approaches the
grandeur of the strange inountam trance.

There are dreams and dreams. The special merit
of the mountain structure is in the harmonious
blending of certain strains of emotion not elsewhere
to he enjoyed together. The winter Alps are melan-
choly, as everything sublimo is more ' or less
melancholy. The melancholy is the spontaneous
recognition by liumau nature of its own i)ettine8s
wlieu brought into immediate contact with what we
plea^ to regard as eternal and infinite, it is the
starting into vivid conscitnisne&s of that sentiment
which poets and preachers hate tiied, with \arying
success, to cryslallise into delinitis fignrt's and for-
multe ; whicli is necessarily more familiar to a man’s
mind, as 'he is more habitually conversant with tlie
vastest object^ of^ thought ; and which is stimulated,
in the mountains in proportion as they are leas
dominated by the i)ctty and tempoi-ary activities of
daily life. In death, it is often said, the family like-
ness comes out which is obscun*d by individual
peculiarities during active life. So in this living
death or cataleptic trance of the mountains, they
carry the imaj^ation more easily to their p(>rmancnt
relations with epochs indefinitely remote.

The jnelancholy, however, which is shared with all
that is sublime or lovely has here its i)cculiar stamp.*
It is at once cxcjuisitcly tender and yet wholesome

Thu PLAYGROUND OF EVltOPE

and stimulatin'];. Tho Atlantic in n December gale
produces a melancholy tempered by the invigorating
influence of the human life that struggles against its
fury ; but tlievc is no touch of teuderness in its
behaviour ; it is a monster which would take a cruel
pleasure in mangling and dibiiguring its victim. A
boundless plain is often at once melancholy and
tender, especially when slu-oudod in biiow ; but it is
depressing as tho vapours which lia)ig like palls «)ve]’
a dreary morass. The, Alps alone possess the merit
of at onco soothing and stimulating. The tender
half-tones, due to tho vaporous air, the raarvclloua
delicacy of light and shade on th(' snou -piled ranges,
and the subVlety of jline, which suggests that homo
seubitive agent has boon moulding the buow-co>ering
to every gentle contour of the surf.ice. act like tho
media which allow tho light-giving rays* to pass,
whilst quenching tho rays of heat ; they transmit the
soothing and rchist the depressing influences of
nature. The snow <in a half-buried chalet suggests a
kind hand laid b(»ftly on a sjck man’s brows. And
y( t the nervi s ;ire not r(‘la\ed. Tho air is bright and
bracing as the piu’ost bree/jo on the sea-shore, with-
out tho slightest trace of languor. Ft has tho inspir-
ing quality of th<' notorious ‘wild North-Easter,’
without its pn'posterous bluster. Even in summer
the same delicidus atmosphere may be breathed
*amongst the higher snowiields in fine weatlier. In
winter it descends to tho valleys, and tho nerves are

THIS ALPS IN WHITER

287

•

Btrnng ap firmly as those of a racehorse in training,
■without being^over-excited. The effect is heightened
hy the intensity of character whieli n'doeius every
detail of a mountain region from tl’.e commonplace.
The first sight of a j)ino-tree, hearing so gallantly —
with something, one may almost say, of military
jauniinoHS — its load of snow-cryslals, destroyed to me
for ever the charm of one of ireine's most fre<iuciitly-
quoted poems. It became once for all impossible to
conceive of that least morbid of trees indulging in
melancholy longings for a southern palm. It may
show something of the siwlness of a hard struggle for
life ; but never in the tvildest of storms could it con-
descend to sentimentalism. » ^

Hut it is time to descend to detail. The Alps in
winter belong, 1 luive said, to dreamland. From the
moment* when the lra\olkr catclie-s sight, from the
terraces of the Jura, of tlio long encampment of
peaks, from !Mout Hlanc to the Wetterhorn, to the
time when he has ^lenelraled to the iunevmost
recesBi's of the chain, h« is passing through a series
of dreams within dreams. Kach \iffion is a jiortal to
one h(>yond and within, still more unsubstantial and
solemn. One passes, hy slow gradation!^ to the more
and more shadow'y regions, where the stream of lile
runs lower and the enchantment hinds the senses
with a mor(‘ powerful opiate. Starting, foi example,
from tto loveliest of nll*6onceivable lakes, where thb
Hhimlis Alp, the Jungfrau, and Hchreckhorn form ft

jt88 tAe PLAY&Bo'uND OF EUBOPE

marvellous backp;round to the old towers of Thun> one
comes under the dominion of the charjn. The lake-
waters, no longer clouded hy turbid torrents, are

tl

mere liquid turquoise. They are of the colour of
which Shelley was thinking when he described the
blue Mediterranean awakened from his summer
dreams ‘ beside a pumiee-isle in Baia‘’s Bay.’
Between the lake and the snow-clad hills lie the
withered forests, the delicate reds and browns of the
d(‘eiduons foliage* giving just the touch of warmth
required to contrast the coolness of the surrounding
scenery. And higher up, the pine-forests still »dis-
I)lay their broad sones of purple, not quite hx that
uncompi’oixiisfhg spiriir which I’cduces them in the
intensity of summer shadow to mere patches of pitchy
blackness, but raellawed by the misty air, and with
their foliage judiciously softened with snow-Just like
the powdered hair of a last-century^ beauty. There
is no longer the tierce glare which gives a look of
parched monotony to the stretches of lofty pasture
midcr an August sun. Thd perpetual greens, de^
nounced by paiiiterB, have disappeared, and in their '
place are ranges of no\el hue and texture which
painters may possibly dislike — for I am not familiar
with then* seci'x'ts— but which they may certainly
despair of adequately rendering. The rangep are
apparently formecl of a delicate material of creamy
tMiitcuess, unlike the dasslhxg splendours of tho
eternal snows, at once so pure and so mellow that it

TUB ALF8 IN ^INTEB 289^

snggeBts rather frozen milk than ordinary snow. If
nut so cth creak it is softer and more tender than its
rival on the loftier peaks. It is moulded into the .
same magic combination of softness and delicacy by
shadows so pure in colour that they seem to bo woven
out of th(' bluest sky itself. Lake and forest and
mountain are lighted by the low sun, casting strange
misty shadows to portentous heights, to fade in the '
vast depths of the sky, or to lose themselves iiui)er-
ceptibly on the mountain ilnnks. As the steamboat
runs into the shadow of the hills, a group of pine-tn-es
on the sky-line ••(unes near the sun, and is sud-
denly transformed into molten silver ; qf some snow-
ridge, pale as death on the neai?bst*side, is lighted up
along its summit nith a series of points glowing with
intense brilliancy, as though the peaks were being
kindled Vy a stupendous burning-glass. The great
snow-mountains «hehind stand glaring in»spectral*
calm, the cliffs hoary with frost, but scarcely changed
in outline or detail from their summer aspect. When
thfe sun sinks, and the broad glow of gorgeous colour-
ing fades into darkness, or is altsorbed by a wide
expanse of phosphoric moonlight, one feels fairly in
tho oirter court of dreamland. *

Scenery, ov#n the wildest which is really enjoy-
able, derives half its charm from lha occult sense of
the hum|n life and social forms moulded upon it. A ^
hare fragment of rock is ugly till euamellcd by lichens,
and the Alps would he unbearably stern but for tho

*m TEE rLAYCtROONl) OF KUBOl'E

picturesque society preserved among their folds. In
summer the true life of the people is oj[)scnred by the
rank overgrowth of parasitic population. In winter
the stream of existence shows itself iii more of its
primitive form, like the rivulets which represent the
glacier torrents. As one penetrates further into the
valleys, and the bagman element — the only represen-
tative of the superincumbent summer population —
disappears, one finds the genuine peasant, neither
the parasite which sucks the blood of summer tourists
nor the melodramatic humbug of opt'ras and picture-
books. He is the rough athletic labourer, wrestliug
with nature for his immediate wants, reducing in-
dustrial life to its simplest forms, and with a certain
capacity — not to bo quite overlooked— -for the absorp-
tion of schnapps. Even Sir Wilfrid Lawson would
admit the force of the temptation after wiaiching a
I day’s la^bour in the snow-smothered forests. 'Ilie
village is empty of its male inhabitants in the day,
and towards evening one hears distant shouts and the
traiir of sleighs emerges from the skirts of the forest,
laden with ma'bses of winter fodder, or with the
mangled trunks of ‘ patrician trees,’ which strain to
the utmost the muscles of their drawers. As the
edge of an open slope is reached, a tumidtuous
glissade takes jdaco to the more level regions. Each
sleigh puts out a couple of legs in advance, like an
insect’s feelers, which agitkte themselves in strange
contortions, resulting by some unintelligible process

THE ALPS IN WINTER

291

in steering the freight past apparently insuperable
obstacles. One may take a seat upon one of these
descending thunderbolts as one may shoot the rapids
of the St. Lawrence; but the process is slightly
alarming to untrained nerves.

As the sun sinks, the lights begin to twinkle out
across the snow from the scattered cottages, more
picturesqut than ever under their winter covering..
There is something pathetic, I hardly know why, in
this humble illumination which lights up the snowy
waste and suggests a number of little isolated foci of
donuistie life. One imagines the family gathered in
tlie low close room, its old stained timbers barely
visible by the glimmer of ih* primitit'e lamp, and
the huge beams in the ceiling enclosing mysterious
islands of gloom, and remembers Macaula,\'s lonely
cottage \^icvo

The oldest cask is opened
* ^id tile laigest lanii> is lit.

The goodman is probably carving lopsided chamois
instead of ‘ trimming his helmet’s jilume ; ’ but it
may be said with litoral truth that

The goodwife’H shuttle xneirxly ^

Ooes flashing thiongh the loom,

and the spinning-wheel has not yet become a thing
of the past. Though more primitive in its arrange-
ments, t^e village is in soAie ways more civilised than
its British rival. A member of a School Board might

S92

TEE PLAYt^OUND OF EUROPE

rejoice to see the energy with which the children are
making up arrears of education interrupted by the
summer labours. Olive branches are plentiful in
these parts, and they srem to thrive amazingly in the
winter. The game of sliding in miniature sleighs
seems to be inexpressibly attractive for children of all
ages, and may ])ossibly produce occasional truancy.
But the sleighs also can'y the children to school from
the higher clusters of houses, and they are to be seen
making daily pilgrimages long enough to imply a
considerable tax upon their pedestrian powers. A
little picture comes back to me as I write of a sVi’ing
of red-nosed urchins plodding vigorously up the deep
tracks uhich lead frcln the lover valley to a remote
hamlet in a subsidiary gb n. The day was gloomy,
the light was fading, and the grey hill-ranges melted
indistinguishably into the grey sky. The forms of the
marrow glen, of the level bottom, in which a few
cottages clustered near the smothered stream, of the
sweeps of pine-forests rising steeply to the steeper
slopes of alp, ^d of the ranges of precipitous rock
above were just indicated by a few broad sweeps of
dim shadow distinct enough to suggest, wliilst
scarcely defining, the main features of the valley and
its walls. Lights and shadows intcripingled so faint
and delicate tha^ each seemed other ; the ground was
^ a form of twilight ; and certainly it looked as though
the children had no vetf cheerful prospect before
them. But, luckily, the mental colouring bestowed

THE ALPS IN fi^INTEE

29»

by the childish mind upon familiar objects does not
come from wUhont nor depend upon the associations
•which are indissoluble for the older observer.

There is no want, indeed, of natural symbols of
melancholy feeling, of impressive bits of embodied
sadness, recalling in sentiment some of Bewick’s
little vignettes of storm-beaten crag and desolate
cliurchjard. Any place out of season has a certain-
charm for my mind in its suggestions of dreamful
indolence. But the A1])ino melancholy dec)x*n8 at
times to pathos and even to passionate regret. The
desA-ted aspect of (hose familiar n’gious is often
delicious in its waj, especially to jaded faculties.
But it is needless to o\plaii^ at length why some
familiar spots should now bo haunted, why silence
should sometimes echo with a bitter pang the voices
of the i%st, or the snow seem to be resting on the
grave of dojid JiappineaS. The less said, on such
things the bettor ; though the sentiment makes itself
felt too emphatically to be quite ignored. The sadder
strains blend more audibly with the music of the
scenery as one passes upw'ards through gi*im gorges
towards the central chain and the last throbs of
animation begin to die aw’ay. In the Ailmest sum-
mer day the, higher Aar valley is stern and savage
enough. Of all congenial scenes for the brutalities of
a battlefield, none could be more appropriate than
the dark basin of the Arimsel, with nothing above
but the bleakest of rock, and the most desolate of

$04 THE PLAYQSOVND OF EUEOPE

snowfields, and tho sullen lake below, equally ready
to receive French or Austrian corpses* The winter
aspect of tho valley scorns to vary between two poles.
It can look ghastly as death when tho middle air is
thick with falling snow, just rovoaling at intervals
the black bosses of smoothed clilT that glare fantas*
tically downwards from apparently impassable heights,
whilst below the great gakh of tho torrent-bed looks
all the more savage from tho (akes of thick ice on the
boulders at the bottom. It presents an aspect which
by comparison may be called gentle when the winter
moonlight shows every swell in the continuous snow-
fields that have gagged the torrent and smoothed the
ruggedness of the ro^ts. ilut the gorge is scarcely
cheerful at the best of times, nor can one say that
tho hospice to which it leads is a lively place of resi-
dence for tho winter. Iluried almost to tho caves in
Snow, it*looks like an ecccntiic 'grey rock with
green shutters. A couple df servants spend their
time in the kitchen with a dog or two for company,
and have the consolations of literature in the shape
of a well-thumbed almanac. Doubtless its assurance
that time docs not actually stand still must often be
welcome, ^e little dribble of commerce, which
never quite ceases, is represented by a few peasants,
who may occasionally be weatherbound long enough
^ make serious inroads on ,tbe dry bread and frozen
ham. Pigs, for some unknown reason, seem to be
the chief article of exchange, and they squeal

THE ALPS IN PiNTETt

29»

emphatic disapproval of their enforced journey. At
such a point one is hanging on to the uxtromest verge
of civilisation. It is the last outpost held by man in
the dreary regions of frost. One must generally
reach it by Huundering knee-deep, mth an occasional
plunge into deeper drifts through hours of severe
labour. Hero one has got almost to the last term.
'L’he dream is almost a nightmare. One’s soul is
sinking into that sleep

Where the dreamer seems to be

Weltering through eternity.

?rhere is but a fragile link between ourself and
the outer world. Taking a plunge into deep water,
the diver has sometimes an u^omfortable feeling, as
though an insuperable distaheu intervened between
himself and the surface. ^ Here one is engulfed in
abysses *of wintry silence. One is overwhelmed and
drenched Mith ilie sense of mountain soli^tde. And
y( t it is desirable to pass yet further, and to feel that
this flicker of life, feeble as it may be, may yet be a
place of refuge as the one remair^ng bond between
yourself and society. One is but playing at danger ;
but for the moment one can sympathise with the
Arctic adventurer pushing towards the pole, and
feeling tliat the ship which he has left behind is the
solo basis of his operations. Abov^ the Grimsel rises
the Qiilenstock, which, though not one of the
mightiest giants, is a gmnd enough peak, and stands
almost at the central nucleus of tlic Alps. The head

.296 rlfi’ PLAYSIiOUNl) OF EPliOPF

WAlers of the Ehonc and the Bhiue ilow from its
base, and it loohs defiantly across a \v{]||ile of glaciers
to its great brethren of tlio Oberlond. It recalls
Milton’s magnificent i)hrasc, * The great vision of the
gdarded Mount,’ but looks over a nobler prospect
than St. Michael’s. Five hours’ A\alk uill reach it in
summer, and it scorned that its u inter panorama
must be one of the most characteristic in the region.
The accident which frustrated our attempt gaAO a
taste of that savage nature which seems icndy to leap
to life in the winter mountains. The ferocious
element of the scenery culminated for a few minutes,
which might easily ha^e been terrible.

We had dliml)cd liigh towards the giant backbone
of the mountain, and a few minutes would have
idacod us on the top. Wo were in that dim upper
stratum, pierced by the nobler peaks alonof and our
next neighbour iii one direction was the group of
Monte llosa, some sixty milts away, but softly and
clearly defined in every detail as an Alpine distance
alone can be. Suddenly, without a warning or an
apparent cause,* the weather changed. The thin
white flakes which had been wandering high above
our heads changed suddenly into a broad black veil
of vapom*, dimming square leagues of snow with its
shadows. A few salmon-coloured wreaths that had
been lingering near the furthest ranges had vanished
between two glances at th9 distance, and m their
place long trailers of cloud spread themselves^ like a

THE ALPS IN WINTEli

299

network of black cobwebs from the bayonet-point of
the Weisshorp to tho p;rcat bastion of the Month
Itosa, anil seemed to bo shooting out mysterious
fibres, as tho spider projects its nets of gossamer.
Though no formed mass of cloud had showed itself,
tho atmosphere bathing the Obcrland peaks rapidly
lost its transparency, and changed into a huge blur
of indefinite gloom. A wmd, cold and icy enough,
had all day been sucked down the broad funnel of the
lUione glacier, from the limiting ridges ; and the light
powdery snow along tho final parapet of the Gallens-
bacle had been blowing off in regular puffs, suggestive
of the steady roll of riile smoke from the file-firing of
a battalion in line. Now tlK#ivind grew louder and
shriller ; miniature whirlwinds began to rollick down
tho steep gullies, and wdien one turned towards the
wind, it *60010011 as if an ice-cold hand was admini-
stering a shjrp blow to the cheek. In ou^ solitude,
beyond all possible commuiiication with permanent
habitation, distant by some hours of walk eien from
our base at the (Trimsel, there was something almost
ti-rriblc in this sudden and ominous awakening of tho
storm spirit. AVe had ventured into the monster’s
fastness and he was rousing himself. We depended
upon the coming moon for our homeward route, and
the moon would not have much power in the thick
snowstorm that w'as apparently about to envelop us.

lietreat was evidently*pEudent, and when the dim*
light began to fade we were still climbing that broad-

^ THE PLAySbOUND OF EUBOPE

backed mispellaneoas ridge or congeries of ridges
which divides the Grimsel from the fihono glacier.
In snmmor it is a wilderness of rocky hummocks and
boulders, affording shelter to the most ambitious
stragglers of the Alpine rose, and visited by an occa-
sional chamois — a kind of neutral ground between the
kingdom of perpetual snow and the highest pastures —
one of those chaotic misshapen regions which suggest
the world 1ms not been (xiiite finished. In winter, a
few black rocks alone peep through the snowy blanket ;
the hollows become covered pitfalls ; and some care
is required in steering through its intricacies,* and
crossing gullj^^s sieep enough to suggest a possibility
of avalanches. Nighf and storm might make the
work severe, though there was no danger for men of
average capacity, and with first-rate guides. But,
suddenly and perversely, the hcnviost and*strougest
nnan of the party declared hiniself te be>ill. His legs
began to totter, and he expressed a decided approba-
tion of sitting in the ahotract. Then, I must confess,
an uncomfortahjo vision flitted for a moment through
my brain. I did not think of the spirited description
of the shepherd, in Thomson, lost in the snow-drifts,

when, foni and fierce,

All winter dii>e8 along the darkened air.

But I did recall a dozen uncomfortable legends — only
•too authentic- -of travellers lost, far nearcir to hos-
pitable refuges, in Alpine storms ; of that disgusting
museum of corpses, which the monks are not ashamed

TEE ALPS IN -^INTEB 290*

to keep for the edification of travellers across the
Ht. Bernard; t)f the English tourists frozen almost
within reach of safety on the Col da Bonhomme ; of
that poor unknown wanderer, who was found a year
or two ago in one of the highest chalets of the Val dc
Bagne, having just been able to struggle thither, in
the winter, with strength enough to write a few words
on a hit of paper, for the instruction of those who
would find his body when the spring brought back
the nomadic inhabitants. Borne shadowy anticipation
suggested itself of a possible newspaper paragraph,
describing the zeal with W'hich we had argued against
our friend’s drowsiness, of our brandy giving out,
and pinches, blows, and kicks* gradually succeeding
to verbal remonstrance. Have not such sad little
dramas been described in numberless books of travel ?
But the toreboding was thrown away. Our friend’s
distress yielded do the simplest of all coticeivablo*
remedies. A few hunches of bread and cheese
restored him to a vigour quite excluding even the
most remote consideration of the propriety of apply*
ing physical force. lie was, I believe, the freshest of
the party when we came once more, as the moonlight
made its last rally against the gathering storm, in
sight of the slumbering hospice. It certainly was as
grim as ever — solitary and gloomy as the hut of an
Esquirnguz, representing^ an almost presumptuous^
attempt of man to struggle against the intentions of
nature, which would have bound the whole region in

c300

TUB PLAWltOUND OF EUBOPE

the rigidity of tenfold torpor. To iis, fresh from still
sterner regions, where our dreams htvi begun to he
haunted by liorcc phantoms resentful of our intrn-
sioii, it seemed nu omhodimont of comfort. It is
only fair to add tlmt the temporary hermit of the
place welcomed us as heartily ns might bo to his
ascetic fare, and did not e\(‘n regard us as appro-
I)riatc victims of specuhition.

After this vision of the savagencss of winter, I
would willingly venture one more description ; but I
have been already too daring, and beyond certain
limits I admit the folly of doscribing the indescrib-
able. There are sights and scones, hi presence of
which the describer, 'dho must feel himself to bo, at
best, a very poor creature, begins to bo sensible that
he is not only impertinent but profane. 1 could, of
course, give a rough catalogue of the beauties of the
•Weugeri^Alp in winter ; a statemenji of j^ic number of
hours wading in snow across its slopes ; a rhapsody
about the lovelim'ss of i)caks seen between the loaded
|une-branchcs, or the marvellous variety of sublimity
and tender beauty enjoyed in perfect calm of bright
weather on the dividing ridge. But 1 refrain. To
me the 'Weiigorn Alp is n sacred place— the holy of
holies in the mountain sanctuary, and the emotions
produced when no desecrating influence is present
and old memories rise up, softened by the sweet sad-
*noss of the scenery, belong' to that innermost region
of feeling which I would not, if I could, lay bare.

THE ALPS IN WINTER

SOI*

Byron’s exploitation of tho scenery becomes a mere
impertinence ; .Scott’s simplicity would not have been
exalted enough; Wordsworth wonld have seen this
much of his own image; and Shelley, though ho
could have caught some of tlie finer siutimeuts,
would have half spoilt it by some metaphysical rant.
1'he best modern describers cannot shake oiT their
moralising or their scientific speculations or their •
desire to be humorous suHiciently to do justice to
such bcautk's. A follower in their stejis will do well
to pass by with a simple confession of wonder and
awe.*

The last glorious vision showed itself as wo de-
scended from Lauterbruiinen, iii tho eVbning, regret-
ting the neglect of nature to provide men W'ith oyes
in their backs. Tho moonlight, reflected from the all-
enveloping shroud of snow, slept on tho lowor ridges
before us, and gave a mysterious beauty to the deeR
gorge of the while Ijiitschine ; but behind ns it turned
the magnificent pyramid of the Jungfrau from base
to summit into one glowing mass of magical lighl;^
It was not a single mass — a flat continuous surface,
as it often appears in tho more emphatic lights and
shades of daytime — ^bnt a whole wilderness of peak,
cliff, and glacier, rising in terrace above terrace and
pyramid above pyramid, divided by mysterious
valleys and shadowy recesses, the forms growing
more delicate as they roS&, till they culminated in the
grand contrast of the balanced cone of tho Silberhom

^8^3 THJg rLAY&sdUND OF EUBOPE

and the flowing sweep of the loftiest crest. A chaos
of grand forms, it yet suggests some pervading
design, too subtle to be understood by mortal vision,
and scorning all comparison with earthly architec-
ture. And the whole was formed, not of vulgar ice
and earth, but of incarnate light. The darkest
shadow was bright against the faint cliffs of the
shadowy gorge, and the highest light faint enough to
be woven out of reflected moonshine. So exquisitely
modulated, and at once so audacious and so delicate
in its sumptuous splendours of design, it belonged to
the dream region, in which we appear to bo inspired
with snjieruatural influences.

But I am vergin|% upon the iioetical. Within a
few hours we ware again ptruggling for coffee in the
buffets of railway stations and forgetting all duties,
pleasures, and human interests amongst 4ihc tum-
bling waves of the ‘biher streak.’ The winter Alps
no longeV exist. 'J’hey arc hut a ^ibion a faint
memory intruding itself at intervals, when the roar
of commonplace has an interval of stillness. Only,
dreams were not at times the best and most solid
of realities, the world would be intolerable.

(’HAPTEU XTII

I'HK BEOBETS OF A MOUNT.UNEKB

I HATE often felt a sympathy, which almost rises to the
pathetic, when looking on at a cricketouatch or boat-
rac% Bomething of the emotion with which Gray
regarded the * distant spires and antiipie towers ’ rises
within me. It is not, indeed, ^hat I %;1 very deeply
for the line ingeimoiis lads who, as somebody says,
are about to be degi'ade<l into tricky, selfish Members
of Parlis^ent. I have seen too much of them. They
are very fine animals ; but they are rather too exclu-
sively animal. The soul is apt to be in too einbryonift
a state within these cases of w(‘ll-strung bone and
muscle. It is impossible for a mere athletic machine,
however finely constructed, to appeal very dt'eply fo
one’s finer sentiments. I can scarcely look forward
with even an affectation of sorrow for the time when,
if more sophisticated, it will at least fiave made a
nearer approach to the dignity of an intellectual being.
It is not the boys who make me fed a touch of sad-
ness ; ^hoir approaching elevation to the dignity of
manhood will raise them on the whole in the scale of

^ Tim PLAY9R0VND OF EUROPE

humanity ; it is the older spectators whoso aspect has
in it something affcotiug. Tho shaky «old gentleman,
who played in the days when it was decidedly less
dangerous to stand up to bowling than to a cannon-
ball, and who now hobbles about on rheumntie joints,
by the help of a stick ; the corpulent elder, who rowed
when boats had gangways down their middle, and did
not ro(iuiro as delicate a balance as an acrobat's at tho
top of a Ihing pyramid — these are the persons w’hom
T cannot see without an occasional sigh. They are
really conscious that they have lost something which
they can never regain ; or, if they momentarily hirget
it, it is even more forcibly impressed upon tho spec-
tators. To see a respectable old gentleman of sixty,
weighing some fifteen stone, suddenly forgot a third of
his weight and two-thirds of his years, and attempt to
caper like a boy, is indeed a startling pheilomenon.
Jo the thoughtless, it may be simply comic; but,
without being a Jaques, one may contrive triso to
birck some melancholy out of it.

, Now, as I have never caught a cricket-ball, and,
on the contrary, \avo caught numerdus crabs in my
life, the sympathy which I feel for these declining
athletes is net duo to' any great personal interest in
the matter. But I have long anticipated that a similar
day would come for me, when I shoidd no longer be
able to pursue my favourite sport of mountaineering,
fiome day 1 should find th^ the ascent of a zigzag
was as bad as a performance on the treadmill ; that I

•rnn regrets of a a/ountaii/eer

805 «

could not look over a precipice without a awimming
in the head ; q^id that I could no more jump a cre-
vasse than tho ThamcH at Woatniinstor. None of
those thmgd have come to pass. Ho far as I know,
my physical powers are still equal to the ascent of
Mont Blanc or the Jungfrau. But I am no less effec-
tually debarred— it matters not how — from moun-
taineering. 1 wander at the foot of the gigantic Alps, •
.and look up Imgingly to the summits, which are
apparently so near, and yet know that they are
divided from mo by an impassable gulf. In some
missionary work i have read tliat curtain South Kca
Islaudc'rs holieved in a future p.iradise u here tho good
should go on eating for over wiMi iusatiiftdo appetites
at an inexhaustible baiupiot. They were to contumo
their eternsd dinner m a house with open wickerwork
sides ; and it was to bo tho punishment of tho damned
to crawl outside in i)eri>etual hunger and^look in,
through the chinlcs as little hoys look in through tho
windows of a London cookshop. With similar feelings
I lately watched through a telescopo the small black,
dots, which were really men, creeping up the high
ilanks of Mont Blanc or Monte llosa. Tho eternal
snows rej^resented for me theElysinn iicldsi into which
entrance was sternly forbidden, and I lingered about
the spot with admixture of pleasure and pain, in the
envious contemjplation of my more fortmiate com-
panions *

1 know there arc those who will receive these

X

THE PLA'fGBOVND OF EVUOPE

*806

asflertions with cull incrodulity. Some persons assumo
that every pleasure with which they cannot sympathise
is necessarily affectation, and hold, as a particular case
of that doctrine, that Alpine travellers risk their lives
merely from fashion or desire of notoriety. Others
are kind enough to admit that there is something
genuine in the passion, but put it on a level with
the passion for climbing greased polos. They think
it derogatory to the due dignity of Alont lllanc that
ho should he used as a greased pole, and assure us
that the true pleasures of the Alps are those which
are within reach of the old and the invalids, wlio can
only creep ^about villages and along high-roads. I
cannot well argue w^h such detractors from what I
consider a noble sport. As for the first class, it is
reduced almost to a question of veracity. I say that
1 enjoy being on the top of a mountain, or, indeed,
halfwayeup a mountain ; that climbing is a pleasure
to me, and would bo so if no one else climbed and no
one ever heard of my climbing. They reply that they
' don't believe it^ No more argument is possible than
if T were to say that I liked eating olives, and some
one asserted that 1 really eat them only out of affec-
tation. l^y reply would be simply to go on eating
olives ; and I hope the reply of mourtaineers will be
to go on climbing Alps. The other assault is more
intelligible. Our critics admhi.that we have a pleasure;
but assert that it is a puerile pleasure — that it loads
to an irreverent view of mountain beauty, and to over-

niB REGRETS OF A MOUETAINEEB sof

bight of that which Khouhl really most impress a refined
and noble miild. To this I shall only make such an
indirect rcxdy as may result from a frank confession
of my own regrets at giving np the climbing business
— perhaps for over. I am sinking, so to speak, from
the butterfiy to the caterpillar stage, and, if the creep-
ing thing is really the highest of the two, it will appear
that there is something in the substance of my lamen-
tations unworthy of' an intellectual being. Let me
try. By way of jireface, however, I admit that moun-
taineering, in my sense oi^thc word, is a sport. It is
a sport which, like fishing or shooting, brings one into
contact with the sublimcst aspects of ^latnro ; and,
witiiout setting their enjoyment before one as an
ultimate end or aim, helps one indirectly to absorb
and bo i)cnctratcd by their influence. Still it is strictly
a sport — as strictly as cricket, or rowing, or knurr and
spell — and !• ha^w no wish to place it on aedifierent*
footing. The game is won when a mountain-top is
reached in spite of difficulties ; it is lost when emo is
forced to retreat ; and, whether won. or lost, it calls
into play a great variety of physical and intellectual
energies, and gives the idcasure which always accom-
panies an energetic use of our faculties. Still it
suffers in som» degree from this undeniable charac-
teristic, and especially from the tinge which has con-
scquontlf been communicated to narratives of moun-,
tain adventmes. There %ro two ways which have
been appropriated to the description of all sporting

*a0S THE PLA^ROUHD OF E FRO PE

exploits. One is to indulga iu line writing about
thorn, to burst out in sentence's which swell to para*
graphs, and in paragraphs which spread over i)ages ;
to plunge into ecstasies about iuiiuice abysses and
ovcriJow’oring splendours, to compare mountains to
archangels lying down in eternal winding-sheets of
snow, and to convert them into allegories about man’s
highest destinies and aspirations. This is good when
it is well done. Mr. lluskin has co\ercd the Matter-
liorn, for example, with a whole web of poetb'al
associations, in language which, to a severe taste, is
perhaps a trifle too fine, though he has done if wdth
an elociuencj which his bitterest antagonists must
freely acknowledge. *Yet most humble writers will
feel that if they try to imitate Mr. Ruskin’s eloquence
they will pay the penalty of becoming ridiculous.
It is not every one w’ho can with impunity compare
* Alps to archangels. Tall talk is luckily on object of
suspicion to Englishmen, and consequently most
writers, and especially those who frankly adopt the
*8porting view pf the mountains, adopt the opposite
scheme : they affect something like cynicism ; they
mix descriptions of scenery with allusions to fleas or
to bitter bder ; they shrink with the prevailing dread
of Englishmen from tha danger of overstepping the
limits of the sublime into its proverbial opposite ; and
, they humbly try to amuse us because they c^u’t strike
us with awe. This, too, if*I may venture to say so, is
good iu its way and place ; and it seems rather hard

TIIK ItEGBETS OF A MOUXTA2I^7:mt 800,

to tliCBO luckless writers when people assume that,
because they ijialui jokes on n mountain, they luro
nceessai'ily inscusihlo to its awful sublimities. A.
sense of humour is not incompatible with imaginative
sensibility; and even ‘Wordsw’orth might have been
an equally powerful prophet of nature if he could
sometimes have descended from his stilts. In short,
a man may worship mountains, and yet have a quiet
joke with them when he is wandering all day in their
tremendous solitudes.

Joking, how'over, is, it must be admitted, a dan-
gerous habit. I freely avow that, in my humble con-
tributions to Alpine literature, I have myself made
some very poor and very unsc*Bonable Witticisms. 1
confess my error, and only wish that I had no worse
errors to confess. Btill 1 think that the poor little
jokes in«whieh wo mountaineers sometimes indulge
have been made liable to rather harsh constructions.
Wo arc accused, in downright earnest, not merely of
being flippant, but of an arrogant contempt for all
persons whose legs are not as strong as our own. Vie
arc supposed seriously to wrap ourselves in our own
conceit, and to brag intolerably of our exploits. Now
1 will not say that no mountaineer ever swaggers:
the quality called by the vulgar ‘ bounce ’ is unluckily
confined to no profession. Certainly 1 have seen a
man intolerably '\'ain because he coufd raise a hundred-
weight with his little finger ; and I dare say that th%

‘ champion bill-poster,’ whose name is advertised on

.sio ThE PLAYgiiOUND OF EUROPE

tho walls of this metropolis, thinks excellence in bill-
posting the highest virtue of a citizen. So some men
may be silly enough to brag in all seriousness about
mountain exploits. However, most lads of twenty
learn that it is silly to give themselves airs about
mere muscular eminetico ; and especially is this true
of Alpine exploits — first, because they require less
physical xirowess than almost any other sport, and
secondly, because a good amateur still feels himself
the hopeless inferior of half the Alpine peasants whom
he sees. You cannot bo very Conceited about a game
in which the first clodhopper *you meet can give, you
ten imnnies’ start in an hour. Still a man Itriting
in a humoibuB veio naturally adopts a certain
bumptious tone, just as our fiicnd^^ Punch’ ostenta-
tiously declares himself to be oninisuent and infallible.
Nobody takes him at hia word, or supposes .that the
editor of * Pmicli ’ is really the most conceited man in
all England. But we xx)or mountifincers arc occa-
sionally fixed with otir own careless talk by some
outsider who is not in the secret. We know ourselves
*to be a small s^ct, and to be often laughed at ; wo
reply by assuming that we are tho salt of the earth,
and that onr«amuscment is tho first and noblest of all
amusements. Our only retort to the good-humoured
ridicule with which wo are occasionally' treated is to
adopt an affected* strut, and to carry it off as if we
l7ere the finest fellows in the world. We fnakc a
boost of our shame, and say, if you laugh we must

TEE BE0BET8 OF *A IfOUNTAINEEB

crow. But WO don’t really moan anything: if wo
did, the only word which the English language would
afford where with to doscribo us would bo tho very
unpleasant antithesis to wise men, and certainly T
hold that wo have tho average amount of common
sense. When, therefore, I see us taken to task for
swaggering, I think it a trifle liard that this merely
playful affectation of superiority should l)e made a
serious fault. For tho future I would promise to Iw
careful, if it wore worth avoiding tho misunderstand-
ing* of men who won’t take a joke. Meanwhile, 1 can
ouly«state that wlien Alpine travellers indulge in a
little swagger about their own performances an<f other
people’s incapacity, they don’ tsinean more than an
iniinitosimal fraction of what they say, and that they
know perfectly w<>ll that when history comes to pio-
nounce iwfinal judgment -upon tlie men of the time, it
won’t put mountain-climbing on a level with patriot-
ism, or even with* excellence in the fine arts.*

The rejiroach of real hotw fide arrogance is, so
far as I know, very little true of Alpine travelhrs.
With tlie exception of the necessarf fringe hanging ‘
on to every sot of human beings — consisting of per-
sons whose heads are weaker than /heir legs —
tho mountaineer, so far as my exjHTience has gone,
is generally modest enough. Perhaps he some-
times flaunts his ice-axes and rope^ a little too much
before fhe public eye »t Chamonix, as a yachts-*
man occasionally flomdshes his nautical costume at

i812

TbE rLAY€iiorm) of eithopf

Cowes ; but the fault may be pardoned by those not
inexorable to human v\eakne(>8cs. I^his opinion, I
know, outs at the root of the most popular theory as
to our ruling passu, n. If ■no do not elmd) the Alps
to gain notoriety, for uliat purpose can ne possibly
climb them ? That same unlucky trick of joking is
taken to indicate that 'wo don’t care much about the
scenery ; lor who, with a really susceptible soul, could
be facetious under the cliffs of Jungfrau or the ghastly
precipices of the ^ratterhom ? Henc<‘ people ■nho
kmdly ( xcuse us irom the blame of notorietj'-hunting
generally accept the ‘ gr< ased-polo ’ theory. We* av( ,
it stems, oMrgronn schoolbcjs, uho, like other school-
boys, enjoy bftng in ftrt, and danger, ai d mischief,
and have as much sensibility f( r natuial beauty as
the mountain mules. And against this, as a mere
serious cemplaiut, I i\is]i to make my fttbl(» protest,
jn order Unit my lamentations on (putting the pro-
fession may not seem un''\erlhy of a thinking being.

Let me try to recall some of tho imiwessions uhich
ijiouutaincering has left \iith me, and see ■whether they
throw any light upon the subject. As 1 gaze at the
huge cliffs where 1 may no longer wander, I find
innumerable* recollections arise — some of them dim,
as though belonging to a past existence^; and some so
brilliant that I can scarcely realise my exclusion from
the scenes to which they belong. I am standing at
the foot of what, to my inintt, is the most glorious of
all Alpine wonders— tho huge Oberland precipice, on

THE BEQBKTft OF A XlOXINTAINEBB 31»

the Blopes of the Faulhoni or the Weiigorn Alp. In-
numerahlo toiiriHie have done all that tourists can do
to cocknify (if that is the riftht derhativc from cock-
ney) tho setnery; Int, like the Pyramids or a (iothic
cathedral, it llmnvs off the taint of \ul{?arity by its
imperishable majesty. E\en on turf strewn with
fandwiih-i aiers and emidy 1 (-ttles, even in the i ro-
se nco of hideous peasant-w( m 'll singing ‘Stand-er
auf ’ for five centimes, we cannot but feel the influence
of Alpine beauty. "When the sunlight is dying off
the snows, or the full moon lighting them up with
ethftial tintp, c'vcn sandwiih pnpcis and singing
wdiion may be forgoth n. How dies the nn'niory of
SI rambles along snow aretes, rff plunges— luckily lu t
leo deep— into crei asses, of toil threngh long snow-
fie’ds, towards a refuge that seemed to recede' as
we advanced— where, to yuote Tiling feni with due
alteration, i/i 1^0 traiedler toiling in imipeaBurublft
snow -

S«n\n hi a \MhikIc ( f the inmstiou®' hill,

Tlie chalot spaiklcs likp a (riuin of t^alt ,

• *

how do such memories as these harmonise with the
sense of superlative suhlimity ?

One element of mountain beauty iit? wo shall all
admit, their ^ast sue and steepness. That a moun-
tain is very big, and w faced by perpendicular walls
of rock^is the first thing wliicli strike** everybody, and
is the whole essence amt outcome of a vast (quantity
of poetical descriptiou. Hence the first condition

j)l4 TftE PLAYQROtJNO OF EUBOPE

towards a due appreciation of mountain scenery is that
these qualities should be impressed upon the imagina-
tion. The mere dry statement that a mountain is so
many feet in vertical height above the sea, and con-
lains so many tons of granite, is nothing. Mont
Blanc is about three miles high. What of that*?
Three miles is an hour’s walk for a lady — an eighteen-
penny cab-fare— the distance from Hyde Park Corner
to the Bank — an express train could do it in three
minutes, or a racehorse in five. It is a measure
which we have learnt to despise, looking at it from
a horizontal point of view ; and accordingly most
persons, on seeing the Alps for the first time, guess
them to bo higher, as measured in feet, than they
really arc. What, indeed, is the use of giving mea-
sures in feet to any but the scientific mind ? Wlio
cares whether the moon is 250,000 or 2,500,000 miles
distant? Mathematicians try to impress upon us
that the (ftstance of the fixid stars i^ only expressible
by a row of figures which stretches across a page ;
suppose it stretched across two or across a dozen
pages, should wS bo any the wiser, or have, in tho
least degree, a clearer notion of the superlative dis-
tances ? Wa civilly say, * Dear me ! ’ when the astro-
nomer looks to us for the appropriate state, but we
only say it with the mouth ; internally our remark is,
‘ You might as wtH have multiplied by a few more
fhillions whilst you were about it.* Even astronomers,
though not fk specially imaginative race, feel the im-

THE BEGItET8'0F*A ilOUNTAJifBEB *81g

potenco of figuren, and try to give ns some measure
which the mind can grasp a little more conveniently.
They tell us about the cannon-ball •which might have
been Hying over since llie time of Adam, and not yet
have reached the heavenly body, or about the stars
which may not yet have become visible, though the
light has been flying to us at a rate inconceivable by
the mind for an inconceivable number of years ; and
they succeed in producing a bewildering and giddy
sensation, although the numbers arc too vast to admit
of any accurate apprehension.

Wo feel a similar need in the case of raonniains.
Besides the bare statement of figures, it is necessary
to have some moans for graspiag tlu> nA'ciiiug of the
figures. The bare tens and thousands must be clothed
with some concrete images. The slatement that a
moimtaia is 10,000 feet high is, by itw If, little nmre
impressive than that it is 3,000 ; wo want smnotbinjv
mote before wo cHu mentally comi)are Montljlane and
Snowdon. Indeed, the same pc'oplo who guess of a
mountain’s height at a number of feet much exceeding
the reality, show, w^eu they arc croti^-examiued, that
they fail to appreciate in any tolerablo degree the real
meaning of the figures. An old lady on^ day, about
11 A.U., proposed to walk from the Ailggischhorn to
the Jungfrau-9^och, and to return for luncheon — the
distance being a good twelve hours’ journey for trained
mountauieers. Every detail of which the huge maftf
is composed is certain to be underestimated. A

tl6

THE PLAYCatOUND OF EUSOPE

gentleman the other day pointed out to me a grand
ice>cliff at the end of a hanging gluoicif, which must
have boon at least 100 feet high, and asked me
whether that snow was three feet deep. Nothing is
murc'Commou than for tourists to mistake some huge
pinnacle of rock, as big as a church tower, for a
traveller. The rocks of the (rrauds Mulcts, in one
corner of which the chalet is hidden, arc often idonti>
fied with a party ascending klont Jllanc ; and I have
seen boulders as big as a house pointed out confidcntl}’'
as chamois. People who make theses blunders must
eviilcntly t-ee the* mountains as mere toys, howitsver
many feet th(\y nia.y give them* at a random guess.
Huge overhan*giMS <'li®i m’o to them steps within the
reach of human logs ; yawning crevasses are ditches
to bo jumped; and foaming waterfalls are like streams
from penny squirts. Everyone knows the a^•alancho8
pn the Jjmgfrau, and the curiously dispr )portionate
appearance of the little ])uffH of white smoke, uliich
are said to be the cause of the thunder : but the dis-
proportion ceases to an eye that has learnt really to
measure distance, and to know that these smoke-puifs
represent a cataract of crashing blocks of ice.

Now ihotfirst merit of mountaineering is that it
enables one to have what theologians ^ould call ai\
experimental faith in the size of mountains— to sub-
stitute a real living belief for a dead intellectual assent,
^t enables one, first, to assi^ something like its true
magnitude«to a rock or a snow-slope ; and, secondly,

THE HEQEETs' OF* A HOUNTAliTEES 81?

1o measure that magnitude in terms of muscular
exertion instead of bare mathematical units. Suppose
that we are standing upon the Wengern Alp ; between
the Mbnch and the Eiger there stretches a round
white bank, with a curved outline, which we may
roughly compare to the back of one «)f Kir E. Laud-
seer’s linns. The ordinary tourists - the old man,
the woman, or the cripple, who are supposed to
appreciate' the real beauties of Alpine sccnei-y- may
look at it comfortably from their hotel. They may
sec its graceful curve, the long straight lines that arc
ruled in dGli(;8.te shadmg down its sides, and the con-
trast of the blinding white snow with the dark blue
sky above ; but they will profcably gifbss it tt> be a
mere bank — a snowdrift, i»crhaps, which has been
piled by the last storm. If yon i)ointed out to them
one of tiao gi'eat rocky teeth Unit projected from its
summit, ai^d said that it was a guide, Uiey woul^
probably remark that ho looked very small, and would
fancy that he could jump over the bank with an effort.
Now a mountaiucer knows, to begin with, that it is a
massive rocky rib, covered with snow, lying at a sharp
angle, and varying perhaps from 500 to 1,000 feet hi
height. So far he might bo accompanied by men of
less soarmg ambition ; by an engineer who had been
mapping the country, or an artist who had been care-
fully observing the mountains from their ba^s. They
might learn in time t0 mtorpret correctly the reftl
meaning of shopes at which the uniuitu^ted guess at

«18

THE PLAY^EOUKD OF EVEOPE

random. But the mountaineer can go a step further,
and it is the next step which gives the real significance
to those delicate curves and lines. He can translate
the 500 or 1,000 feet of snow-slope into a more
tangible unit of measurement. To him, perhaps, they
recall the memory of a toilsome ascent, the sun beat-
ing on his head for five or six hours, the snow re-
turning the glare with still more parching effect ; a
stalwart guide toiling all the wciiry time, cutting steps
in hard blue ice, the fragments hissing and spinning
down the long straight grooves in the frozen snow
till they lost themselves in the yawning chasm below ;
and step after step taken along the slippery staircase,
till at length ho triumpfiautly sprang upon the summit
of the tremendous wall that no human foot had scaled
before. The little black knobs that rise above the
edge represent for him huge impassable rocks* sinking
an one si(^ in scarped slippery 8urfp.ces.towai‘ds the
snowficld, and on the other stuopuig in one tremendous
cliff to a distorted glacier thousands of feet below.
The faint blue ^ne across the upper neve, scarcely
distinguishable to the eye, reiwescnts to one observer
nothing but a trifling undulation ; a second, perhaps,
knows that ft means a crevasse; the mountaineer
remembers that it is the top of a huge ^shasm, thirty
feet across, and pprhaps ten times as deep, with per-
]gendicnlar sides of glimmering blue ice, and, fringed
by thick rows of enormous pendent icicles. The marks
that are scored in delicate lines, such as might be

THE REGRETS OF A kOUNTAlNEER 31 J

ruled by a diamond on glats. Lave been cut by in-
numerable stneams trickling in hot weather from the
overlaBting snow, or ploughed by succeeding avalanches
that havo slipped from the huge upper snowlieldH
above. In short, there is no insignificant line or
mark that has not its memory or its indication of
the strange phenomena of the upper \\orld. True,
the same picture is painted upon the retina of all
classes of ol)sevYors ; aud so Person and a schoolboy
and a peasant might receive tlie same physical im-
pression from a set of black and white marks on the
page of a Greek play ; l)ut to one they would bo an in-
coherent conglomeration of unmeaning and capricious
lines, to another they w'ould represent certain sounds
more or less corresponding to some English words;
whilst to tho scholar they would reveal some of the
noblest poetry iu the world, and all the associations of
successful iuteUfctual labour. I do not sqj^ that the
difference is quite so great in the case of the mountains ;
still I am certain that no ono can decipher the natural
writing on tho face of a snow-slope qp a precipice who
has not waudere<l amongst their recesses, and learnt
by slow experience what is indicated by marks which
an ignorant observer would scarcely nbtice. True,
oven one who sees a mountain for the first time may
know that, as a matter of fact, a aega on the face of a
cliff mgans, for example, a recent fall of a rock ; bi^
between tho bare knowlc(fgc and tho acquaintauec with
all which that knowledge implies— the thunder of the

^ TSE PLAYesdmji OF EUSOPE

ftill, the crash of the smaller fragments, the bounding
energy of the descending mass— liherc is almost os
much difference as between hearing that a battle has
been fought and being present at it yourself. We
have all read descriptions of Waterloo till we are sick
of the subject ; but I imagine that our emotions on
scomg the shatter<*d w<*ll of Ilougomont are very
inferior to those of one of the Guard who should
revisit the place where he held out for a long day
agaiiist tlie assaults of the French iU’iu> .

Now to an old mountaineer the Oberland cliffs are
full of memories ; and, more than this, he has learnt
the language spoken by every crag a)ul e\ery wave of
glacier. It is Grange if they do not affect him rather
more pow’orfully than the casual visitor who hasneier
been initiated by practical experience into their diffi-
culties. To him, the huge Imttrcbs which rims down
from the Monch is something more than an irregular
pyramid, purple with white patches 0*1 the bottom and
pure white at the top. He lills up the bare outline
supplied by the senses with a thousand lively images,
lie sees tier abdVe tier of rock, rising in a gradually
ascending scale of difficulty, covered at first by long
lines of the dsbsiB that have been splintered by frost
from the higher wall, and afterwards rising bare and
black and threatening. Ho knows instinctively which
of the ledges has a dangerous look— where such a
hold mountaineer as John Lauener might slip on the
polished Ba];faco, or bo in danger of an avalanche from

THE BEOBETS 'OF A MOVNTAI^fEEB m

above. He setiB the little shell-like swelling at the
foot of the glacier crawling flown the steep slope
above, and knows that it means an almost inaccessible
wall of ice ; and the steep snowficlds that rise towards
the summit are suggestive of Something very different
from the picture which might* have existed in the
mind of a German student, who once asked me
whether it was possible to make the ascent on a.
mule.

Hence, if mountains owe their influence upon the
imagination in a great degree to their size and steep-
ness? and apparent inaccessibility — as no one can
doubt that they do, whatever may be the explanation
of the fact that people like to Kfok at bi^, steep, inac-
cessible objects — the advantages of the mountaineer
are obvious. He can measure those qualities on a
very different scale from the ordinary traveller. He
measures the size, not by the vague abstrac| term of,
so fliany thousand feet, but by the hours of labour,
divided into minutes— each separately felt— of strenu-
ous muscular exertion. The steepness is not expressed
in degrees, but by the memory of the sensation pro-
duced when a snow-slope seems to be rising up and
smiting you in the face ; when, far «wiiy from all
human help, you are clinging like a fly to the slippery
side of a mighty pinnacle in mid air.^ And as for the
inaccessibility, no one can measure the difficulty of
climbing a hill who has dot wearied his muscles and
brain in struggling against the opposinfi^ obstacles.

THE PLAYBBOUND OF EUBOPE

Alpine travellers, it is stud, have removed the
romance from the mountains by climbing them.
What they have really done is to prove that there
exists a narrow line by which a way may be found to
the top of any given mountain ; but the clue leads
through innumerable inaccesbibilitios ; true, you can
follow one path, but to right and left are cliffs
which no human foot will ever tread, and whose
terrors can only be realised when you are in their
immediate neighbourhood. The cliffs of the Matter-
horn do not bar the way to the top effectually, but it
is only by forcing a passage through them that you
can really appreciate their terrible significance.

Hence l'*say thift the qualities winch strike
e\ery sensitive observer are impressed upon the
mountaineer with tenfold force and intensity. If he
is as accessible to poetical influences as his neigk-
I hours — I don’t know why he should bo less so —
he has opened new avenues of access between* the
scenery and his mind. He has learnt a language
which is but partially revealed to ordinary men. An
artist is superior to an unlearned picture-seer, not
merely because he has greater natural sensibility, but
because he Has improved it by methodical experience;
because his senses have been sharpened by constant
practice, till he can catch finer shades of colouring,
and more delicate inflexions of line; because, also,
the lines and colours have ficquired new significance,
and been associated with a thousand thoughts with

THE BEGBET8 OF A koUNTAINEEB 829

which the mass of mankind has never eared to
connect them* The raoontaineer is improved by a
Bimilar process. But I know some sceptical critics
will ask, does not the way in which he is accustomed
to regard mountains rather deaden their poetical ih-
fluence ? Doesn’t he come to look at them as mere
instruments of sport, and overlook their more spiritual
teaching? Does not all the excitement of personal
adventure and the noisy apparatus of guides, and
ropes, and axes, and tobacco, and the fun of climbing,
rather dull his perceptions and incapacitate him from
perdbiving

The silence that is in the starry sk>,

The sleep that is among the lonely Mis ?

WeU, I have known some stupid and unpoetical moun-
taineers; and, since I have been dismounted from
my favodritc hobby, 1 think 1 have met some similar
specimens smoi^ the humbler class of* tourists.*
There are persons, I fancy, who * do ’ the Alps ; who
look upon the Lake of Lucerne as one more task ticked
off from their memorandum book, apd count up the
list of summits visible h:om the Gomergrat without
being penetrated with any keen sense of sublimity.
And there are mountaineers who arl capable of
making a pnn,on the top of Mont Blanc— and capable
of nothing more. Still I venture tg deny that even
punning, is incompatible with poetry, or that those,
who make the pun can have no deeper feeling imtheir
bosoms which they are perhaps too shamefaced to utter.

«24

THE PLAY6B0UND OF EUSOPE

Tho fact is that that which gives its inexpressible
charm to mountaineering is the incefisant series of
exquisite natural scenes, which are for the most part
enjoyed by the mountaineer alone. This is, 1 am
aware, a round assertion ; but I will try to support it
by a few of the visions which arc recalled to me by
these Oberland cliffs, and which 1 have seen profoundly
enjoyed by men who perhaps never mentioned them
again, and probably in describing their adventures
scrupulously avoided the danger of being sentimental.

Thus every traveller has occasionally done a sun-
rise, and a more lamentable proceeding than the
ordinary view of a sunrise can hardly be imagined.
You are cold, miseiflble, breakfastless; have risen
shivering &om a warm bed, and in your heart long only
to creep into bed again. To the mountaineer all this
is changed. He is beginning a day full of the%nticipa-
4ion of a pleasant excitement. He has, perhaps, been
waiting anxiously for fine weather, to try conclusions
with some huge giant not yet scaled. He moves out
with somethin^^ of the feeling with which a soldier
goes to the assault of a fortress, but without the same
probability of coming home in fragments ; the danger
is trifling eitbugh to be merely exhilatory, and to give
a pleasant tension to the nerves; hiis muscles feel
firm and springy^ and his stomach— no small advan-
^tage to the enjoyment of scenery— is in ^excellent
orden. He looks at the darkling stars with keen
satisfaction, prepared to enjoy a fine sunrise with all

• • ,

THE EEQSET8 OF A MOUNTAlfTEEB 82g

his faculties at their best, andmth the added pleasure
of a good on^en for his day’s work. Then a huge
dark mass begins to mould itself slowly out of the
darkness, the sky begins to form a background of
deep purple, against which the outline becomes
gradually more definite ; one by one, the peaks catch
the exquisite Alpine glow, lighting up in rapid suc-
cession, like a vast illumination ; and when at last
the steady sunlight settles upon them, and shows
every ro<*k and glacier, without even a delicate film of
mist to obscure them, he feels his heart bound, and
stops out gaily to tlu* assault — just as the people on
the Rigi are giving thanks that the show is over and
that they may go to bed. BtiK granddl* is the sight
when the mountaineer has already reached some lofty
ridge, and, as the sun rises, stands between the day
and the Slight — the valley still in deep sleep, with the
mists lying between the folds of the hills, and the
sndW-peaks stanTling out clear and pale white just
before the sun reaches them, whilst a broad band of
orange light runs all round the vast horizon. The
glory of sunsets is equally increased in the thin upper
air. The grandest of all such sights that live in my
memory is that of a sunset from the Aiguille du Gofite.
The snow at our feet was glowing with rich light, and
the shadows in our footsteps a vivid green by the con-
trast. Beneath us was a vast horizontal floor of thin
level nusts suspended inteid air, spread like a ^anop^
over the whole boundless landscape, an^ tinged with

926 T6e PLAYOBOUNlf OF EUBOPE

every hue of sunset. Through its rents and gaps we
could seethe lower mountains, the dis^nt plains, and
a fragment of the Lake of Geneva lying in a more
sober purple. Above us rose the solemn mass of
Mont Blanc in the richest glow of an Alpine sunset.
The sense of lonely sublimity was almost oppressive,
and although half our party was suffering from sick-
ness, I believe even the guides were moved to a sense
of solemn beauty.

These grand scenic effects are occasionally seen
by ordinary travellers, though the ordinary traveller
is for the most part out of temper at 8 k.u. The
mountaineer can eqoy them, both because his frame
of mind is pfoperly trained to receive the natural
beauty, and because he alone sees them with their
best accessories, amidst the silence of the eternal
snow, and the vast panoramas visible from the loftier
summits. And he has a similar advantage in most
of the groat natural phenomena of die cloud and the
sunshine. No sight in the Alps is more impressive
than the huge rocks of a black precipice suddenly
frowning out through the chasms of a storm-cloud.
But grand as such a sight may be from the safe
verandahs of4he inn at Grindelwald, it is far grander
in the silence of the Central Alps amon^t the savage
wilderness of rock and snow. Another characteristic
effect of the High* Alps often presents itself when one
has b^n climbing for two or 2hree hours, with nothing
in sight bnl^the varying wreaths of mist that chased

THE SEGSET8*0F*A MOUHTAlifEER MX

each other monotonoasly along the rocky ribs up
whose snow-^vcred backbone we were laboriously
fighting our way. Suddenly there is a puff of wind,
and looking round we find that we have in an instant
pierced the clouds, and emerged, as it were, on the
surface of the ocean of vapour. Beneath ns stretohes
for hundreds of miles the level fieecy floor, and above
us shines out clear in the eternal sunshine every
mountain, from Mont Blanc to Monte Bosa and the
Jungfrau. What, again, in the lower regions, can
equal the mysterious charm of gazing from the edge
of d tom rocky parapet into an apparently f|thomle8S
abyss, where nothing but what an Alpine traveller
calls a ‘ strange formless wreathing of* vapour ’ indi-
cates the storm-wind that is raging below us? I
might go on indefinitely recalling the strangely im-
pressive scenes that frequently startle the traveller in
the waste upper world ; but language is feeble indee^
to convey even a glimmering of what is to be seen to
those who have not seen it for themselves, whilst to
them it can be little more than a peg upon which ^
hang their own recollections. These glories, in which
the mountain Spirit reveals himself to his true wor-
shippers, are only to be gained by the appropriate
service of climbing — at some risk, though a very
trifling risk, if he is approached with due form and
ceremony — into the furthest recesses of his shrines.
And without seeing th^, I maintain that malt
has really seen the Alps.

^23 T&E PLAY9B0VN6 OF BUBOPE

The difference between the exoteric and the
esoteric school of mountaineers may indicated by
their different view of glaciers. At Grindelwald, for
example, it is the fashion to go and * see the glaciers ’
— ^heaven save the mark ! Ladies in costumes, heavy
German professors, Americans doing the Alps at a
gallop. Cook’s tourists, and other varieties of a well-
known genus, go off in shoals and see — what? A
gigantic mass of ice, strangely torn with a few of the
exquisite blue crevasses, but dolilod and prostrate in
dirt and ruins. A stream foul with mud oozes out
from the base ; the whole mass seems to be melting
fast away; the summer sun lias evidently got the
best of it in*thc6e lo%er regions, and nothing can
resist him but the great mounds of decayuig rock that
strew the surface in confused lumps. It is as much like
the glacier of the upper regions as the meltihg frag-
ijients of enow in a London street are like the surface
of the fresir snow that has just hdlen iii a country fiAd.
And by way of improving its attractions a perpetual
pjcnic is going on, and the ingenious natives have
hewed a tunnel mto the ice, for admission to which
they charge certain centimes. The unlucky glacier
reminds me «t his latter end of a wretched whale
stranded on a beach, dissolving into masses of
blubber, and hacked by remorseless fishermen,
instead of plunging at his ease in the deep blue
f^ater.^ Fax above, where 1;he glacier begins his
course, he seen only by the true mountaineer.

THE BEGSETS*OF A MOVNTAitjEEli S2<|

There are vast amphitheatres of pure snow, of which
the glacier lyiowu to tourists is merely the insig-
nificant drainage, but whoso very existence they do
not generally suspect. They are utterly ignorant
that from the top of the iccfall which they visit
you may walk for hours on the eternal ice. After
a long climb you come to the region where the
glacier is truly at its noblest ; where the surface is a
spotless white ; where the crevasses are enormous
rents sinking to profound depths, with walls of the
purest blue; where the glacier is torn and shat-
terdd by the energetic forces which nioidd it, but
lias an expression of superabundant power, like a
full stream fretting against its bauktfand plunging
through the vast gorges that it has hewn for itself in
the course of centuries. The bases of the moun-
tains arb immerse<l in a deluge of cockneyism — fortu-
nately a shallow deluge — whilst their summits rise higji
info the bracing air, where everything is pure and
poetical.

The difference which 1 have thus endeavoured to

^ •

indicate is more or less traceable in a wider sense.
The mountains are exquisitely beautiful, indeed, from
whatever i)oiuts of view we contemplate them ; and
the mountaineer would lose much if he never saw the
beauties of the lower valleys, of pasturages deep in
flowers^ and dark pine-forests with the summits
shining from far off bet%een the stems. Oiilj, as it
seems to me, he has the exclusive pcerogative of

^ tItjB PLAT^BOUNi OF EUBOPE

thoTonghly enjoying one — and that the most charac-
toiietic, though by no means only, ^ment of the
scenery. There may bo a very good dinner spread
before tvrenty people ; but if nineteen of them were
teetotalers, and the twentieth drank his wine like a
man, he would be the only one to do it full justice ;
the others might praise the meat or the fruits, but
he would alone enjoy the champagne; and in the
great feast which Nature spreads before us (a stock
metaphor, which emboldens me to make the com-
parison), the high mountain scenery acts the part of
the champagne. Unluckily, too, the teetotalers* are
very apt, in this case also, to sit in judgment upon
their more adVenturotfs nei^bours. Especially are
they pleased to carp at the views from high summits.
I have been constantly asked, with a covert sneer,
* Did it repay you ? ’ — a question which invdlves the
assumption that one wants to be repaid, ns though
the labour were not itself part of tLe pleasure, mid
which implies a doubt that the view is really enjoy-
able. People are always demonstrating that the
lower views are the most beautiful; and at the
same time complaining that mountaineers frequently
turn back without looking at the view from the top,
as thouc^ that would necessarily imp^ that they
cared nothing for scenery. In opposition to which I
must first remark that, as a rule, every step of an
tfecent^has a beauty of its <Am, which one is quietly
absorbing eyen when one is not directly making

TEB BBQBETB*OF’a MOVETAltlEBB 881

it a Bubjeet of contemplation, and that the view
from the top^is generally the crowning glory of the
whole.

It will be enough if I conclude with an attempt to
illustrate this last assertion ; and I will do it by still
referring to the Oborland. Every visitor with a soul
for the beautiful admires the noble form of the Wetter-
horn '-the lofty snow-crowned pyramid rising in such
light and yet massive lines from its huge basement of*
perpendicular cliffs. The Wetterhorn has, however,
a further merit. To my mind — and I believe most
connoisseurs of mountain tops agree with me — it is
one of the most impressive summits in the Alps. It
is not a sharp pinnacle like the \\%isshorn, or a
cupola like Mont Blanc, or a grand rocky tooth like
the Monte Bosa, but a long and nearly horizontal
knife-edge, which, as seen from either end, has of
course the appearance of a sharp-pointed cone. It is
whbn balanced upon this ridge — sitting astride of the
knife-edge on which one can hardly stand without
giddiness — that one fully appreciates an Alpine preci-
pice. Mr. Justice Wills has adminSbly described the
first ascent, and the impression it made upon him,
in a paper' which has become classical for succeeding
adventurers. Behind you the snow-slope sinks with
perilous steepness towards the wilderness of glacier
and rock through which the ascent has Iain. But
in froni the ice sinka^with even greater st^pne8fi
for a few feet or yards. Then it curves over and

TAE PLAYCtBOUNd OF EUBOPE

disappeaxB, and the next thing that the eye catohos
is the meadowland of Grindelwald, sopie 9,000 feet
below. I have looked down many precipices, where
the eye can trace the coarse of every pebble that
bounds down the awful slopes, and where I have
shuddered as some dislodged fragment of rock showed
the course which, in case of accident, fragments of
my own body would follow. A precipice is always,
for obvious reasons, far more terrible from above
than from below. The creeping, tingling sensation
which passes through one’s limbs — even when one
knows oneself to be in perfect safety — testifies to 'the
thrilling influence of the sight. But 1 have never
so realised tlib terror# of a terrific cliff as when I
could not see it. The awful gulf which intervened
between me and the green meadows struck the imagi-
nation by its invisibility. It was like the view which
may be seen from the ridge of a cathedral roof, where
the eaves ^ave for their immc'liate*backgroand the
pavement of the streets below; only this cathedral
w^ 9,000 feet high. Now, any one standing at the
foot of the Wetterhorn may admire their stupendous
massiveness and steepness ; but, to feel their influence
enter in the wery marrow of one’s bones, it is neces-
sary to stand at the summit, and to fancy the one
little slide down the short ico-slope, to be followed
apparently by a bound into dear air and a fall down
tb the^ houses, from heights where only tlie eagle
ventures to ijoar.

THE BEGItET8*0F*A MOUNTAlfjEEB ^

This is one of the Alpine beauties, which, of
course, is b^ond the power of art to imitate, and
which people are therefore apt to ignore. But it is
not the only one to be seen on the high summits. It
is often said that these views are not M)eautifnr
— apparently because they won’t go into a picture, or,
to put it more fairly, because no picture can in the
faintest degree imitate them. But without quarrel-
ling about words, 1 think that, even if ‘ beautiful ’ bo ‘
not the most correct epithet, they have a marvellously
stimulating effect upon the imagination. Let us look
rouhd from this wonderful pinnacle in mid air, luid
note one or two of the most striking elements of the
scenery.

You are, in the first place, perched on a cliff,
whose presence is the more felt because it is unseen.
Then yOu are in a region over which eternal silence
is brooding. Not a sound ever comes there, excepji
the occasional fall of a splintered fragment of rock, or
a layer of snow ; no stream is heard trickling, and
the sounds of animal life are left thousands of feet
below. The most that you can hear is some mys-
terious noise made by the wind eddying round the
gigantic rocks ; sometimes a strange flapping sound,
as if an unearthly flag was shaking its invisible folds
in the air. The enormous tract of country over which
your view extends — most of it dim and almost dis-
solved Into air by distance — intensifies the ^ongS

^ Tbs playoboun}^ of bvbope

influence of the silence. Yon feel the force of the
line I have quoted from Wordsworth —

The Bleep that is among the lonely hills.

None of the travellers whom you can see crawling at
your feet has the least conception of what is meant
by the silent solitudes of the High Alps. To you, it
is like a return to the stir of active life, when, after
hours of lonely wandering, you return to hear the
tinkling of the oow*bells below; to them the same
sound is the ultimate limit of the habitable world.

Whilst your mind is properly toned by these
influences, you become conscious of another fact, to
which the oofnmon va&iety of tourists is necessarily
insensible. You begin to find out for the first time
what the mountains really are. On one side^ you
look back upon the huge reservoirs from which the
Pberland glaciers descend. You see the vast stores
from which the great rivers of Europe are replenished,
the monstrous crawling masses that are carving the
iqountains into shape, and the gigantic bulwarks that
separate two great quarters of the world. From
below these wild regions are half invisible ; they are
masked by the outer line of mountains ; and it is not
till you are able to command them from some lofty
point that you can appreciate the grandeur of the
huge barriers, an^ the snow that is piled within their
folds. ^ There is another hfllf of the view equally
striking, l^ooking towards the north, the whole of

THE BBQBET8 *0F 4 UOUNTAIEEEB 88(

Switzerland is coached at your feet; the Jura and
the Black Forest lie on the far horizon. And then
you know what is the nature of a reaUy mountainouB
country. From below everything is seen in a kind
of distorted perspective. The people of the valley
naturally think that the valley is everything— that
the country resembles old-fashioned maps, where a
few sporadic lumps are distributed amongst towns
and plains. The true proportions reveal themselves*
as you ascend. The valleys, you can now see, are
nothing but narrow trenches scooped out amidst a
tossing waste of mountain, just to carry off the
drainage. The great ridges run hither and thither,
having it all their own way,*arild aiiH untameable
regions of rock or open grass or forest, at whose
feet the valleys exist on sufferance. Creeping about
amongskthe roots of the hills, you half miss the hills
themselves ; you quite fail to understand the massive-
neA of the motintain chains, and, therefore, the
wonderful energy of the forces that have heaved the
surface of the world into these distorted shapes. And
it is to a half-conscious sense of the powers that must
have been at work that a great part of the influence
of mountain scenery is due. Geologists toU us that
a theory of catastrophes is unphilosophical ; but,
whatever may be the scientific truth, our minds are
impressed as though we were witnrasing the results
of some incredible contnlsion. At Stonehe^e vrS
ask what human beings could have elected thesg

TBE PLATfBOUNE OF EUROPE

strange grey monuments, and in the mountains we
instinctively ask what force can have carved out
the Matterhorn, and pl^ed the Wetterhorn on its
gigantic pedestal. Now, it is not till we reach some
commanding point that we realise the amazing
extent of country over which the solid ground has
been shaking and heaving itself in irresistible tumult.

Something, it is true, of this last effect may be
seen from such mountains as the Rigi or the Fanl-
horn. There, too, one seems to be at the centre of a
vast sphere, the earth bending up in a cup-like form to
meet the sky, and the blue vault above stretching in
an arch majestical by its enormous extent. There
you seem' to (see a sensible fraction of the world at
your feet. But the effect is hir less striking when
other mountains obviously look down upon you;
when, as it were, you are looking at the waves of the
|;reat ocean of hills merely from the crest of one of
the waves themselves, and not from some lighthouse
that rises far over their heads ; for the Wetterhorn,
like the Eiger, Mdnch, and Jungfrau, owes one great
beauty to the fafit that it is on the edge of the lower
country, and stands between the real giants and the
crowd of inferior, though still enormous, masses in
attendance upon them. And, in the next place, your
mind is far better adapted to receive impressions of
sublimity when Jrou are alone> in a silent region,
Vith a black sky above and giant cliffs all' round;
,with a so^se still in your mind, if not of actual

THE BEOEETS* OF A MOVNTAT^EEE W

danger, still of danger that would become ntal with
the slightest i;plaxation of caution, and with the world
divided from yon by hours of snow and rock.

‘ 1 will go no further, not because I have no more

to say, but because descriptions of scenei7 soon
become wearisome, and because I have, I hope, said
ono)igh to show that the mountaineer may boast of
some iutelleetual pleasures; that ho is not a mere
scrambler, but that he looks for poetical impressions,
as W(‘ll as for such small glory as his acliicvements
may gain in a very small circle. Somctliing of what
he gains fortunately sticks by liim : he does not (piite
forget the mountain language ; his eye still recognises
the space and the height ancf the gl(fty of the lofty
mountains. And yet there is some pain in wandering
gliostlike among the scones of his earlier pleasures.
For m/^part, I try in vam to hug myself in a sense
of comfort. I turn over in bed when ^ hear thp
stampmg of luutrvily nailed shoes aloitg the passage
of an inn about 2 a.m. I feel the skin of my nose
complacently when I see others returning with^a
glistening tight aspect about that luituckily prominent
feature, and know that in a day or two it will be raw
and blistered and burning. I think, in*a comfortable
inn at night,, of the miseries of those who are trying
to sleep in damp hay, or on hard boards of chalets, at
once c(^d and stufi^ and haunted by innumerable
fleas. 1 congratulate xd^self on having a whqje skin
and unfraotured bones, and on the small danger of

z

M8 T&B ’PLA79S0UND OF BUSohl

ev0E breaking them over an Alpine predpioe. Bat

yet I secretly know that these eonsolations are feeble.

It is little use to avoid early rising and discomfort,

uid even fleas, if one also loses the pleasures to which

they wele the sauce — ^rather too piquante a sauce

occasionally, it must be admitted. “ The phUosophy is

all very well which recommends moderate.enjoyment,

regular exercise, and a careful avo^ance of risk and

• ^

overexcitement. That is, it is all very well so long
as risk and excitement and immoderate enjoyment
are out of your power ; but it does not stand the test
of looking on and seeing them just beyond your
reach. In time, no doubt, a man may grow calm ;
he may learn fo enjoy^e pleasures and the exquisite .
beauties of the lower regions — though they, too, are
most fully enjoyed when they have a contrast with
beauties of a different, and pleasures of a keener
exoitemenji. When first debarred, ^t any rate, pne
feels like a balloon full of gas, and fixed by immov-
able ropes to the prosaic ground. It is pleasant to lie
on one’s back inyk bed of rhododendrons, and look up
to a mountain top peering at one from above a bank
of cloud ; but it is pleasantest when one has qualified
oneself for Apose by climbing the peak the day
before and becoming familiar with its terrors and its
beauties. In timp, doubtless, one may get reconciled
|o anything; one may settle down to be a catprpillar,
even a/ter one has known &e pleMures of being a
butterfly; one may become pbUosophical, and have

TH^ BEQSETS'OF A MOUNTAINEEIi 88»

oQe’B olothoB let out ; and even in time, perhaps —
though it is almost too terrible to contemplate— be
content with a mule or a carriage, or that lowest
depth to which human beings can sink, and for which
the English language happily affords no name, a
ehai$e a porteurs : and even inr such degradation the
memory ofjbetter times may be pleasant ; for I doubt
much whether it truth the poet sings —

c *

That a sorrow’d crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.

Certainly, to a philosophical mind, the sentiment is
doubtful. For my part, the fate which has out me
off, if I may use the expression, in the flower of my
youth, and doomed me to bo ft non>clftubing animal
in futtire, is one Vbich ought to exclude grumbling.
I cannot indicate it more plainly, for I might so
make' efen the grumbling in which I ha^e already
indulged look like a sin. I can only say ^hat thery
are*some very delightful things in which it is possible
to discover an infinitesimal drop of bitterness, and
that the' mountaineer who undertakes to cut himsqjf
off from his favourite pastime, even ior reasons which
he will admit in his wildest moods to be more than
amply sufficient, must expect at times tb feel certain
pangs of re^et, however quickly they may be
smothered.

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(HIPS Hid A J Sii VRi Woi itiy
Vo) I Jifld Hid Covtit With 13^
Jllustiations ( io\ n 3\o d 6/
Vol II Moor and M loh With i?
lllusii iticiis Cr S (f

SKMPt ( Ulxl 1\G IOBOGA

M\( WDOIHIKUI SI ORIS
H> 1 M IlPViiKM) I ( G IFiBUn
1 Mwwmi Wiihvm tK Ktv John
Kfri C)i mono IIvkp ind c'oloml
Buck With a>4 Hush i ons Crown
8vo loj (i(f

SWIM M INC By Vkc hibai d Stni i AIR
and W iiii I SM Up nk\ W nh*ii9 Ulus
Iraiions c 1 t v a io( 6 '
lENMs I AWN IFNMS KAC
gUl IS AND HVLs 1 \ T M And
C Ct Hp a UK 01 1 r O JlF''r*FL»-
Bouvi RIP lAl A ( Aincli With
( ontiihutmiis bv th Lien A 1 \ i ikL
TON W C MaR'-hai 1 Miss I Uoi>
&c W Ith 79 111 istr t OP C 8ro 101
YACHMNt.

Vol I till-, Pst jrti n Noting,
1 ulcs 1 itting Out iVt IN *'11 } nvARD
Si f 1 1\ \N, Dvt I OI u B^asrIy
K C B C L Sp 1 H-^Pii 1 11 c B i\c
With J14 Illust Cr 8% los (kf
Vol 11 Yacht Clubs VdtiNMi^^n
Ameiica and the Colonic s \ uht
ing Hy R T PiiiCHur th
Fail op Onsiow (i c MG, \e
With i9y Ulus C loun V /Of c /

8 lOJ^OUANS ecu, STANDAfiD A SDthPNfiRil VfORKi,

Sport and ^tA^xan— continued

Pur and Feather Series.

TditflbyA 1 I Wvison

IHT PVkIRIDGI NiturU History Till liKOl SL N ttu il Ilistoo by the
l>y thi K<v H A NK< ihpkson, Rpv H A ihiksun Shooting

Shcxning by ^ I STUAR r \V c n i bvA J Siu\Kr Woiii fv ( ookciy,

vtiy by OiOKGr SArMs»iR\ b\ (i oRc ^ Saimshuy With 13
ih 11 lull pigt* llliist It ns anil 11 1 it ns by J Siu \Rr WoRlii Y
tt In \ I HOI I j\ A I I ind \ Lhorbifn nd \uioiis I) i
Sit \ut WoiiTi\ and ( Whvmiii I ©i in 11 ih Itxi <i(wiiS\o
'ind Ts IM.,1 in in th 1 t by A J 1 IHl* H \M \M) Till K \HBJ 1 By

S1U4R1 VVi ILIY (l< viiS\o,5^ I tin lion Gl^KArDl As I fils 1

In pf pi if I

WILDIOWI Bvtiu Hw John Scot! Till PHI \S\M I\ V | Sn \i 1
Mom VC u \i 1 Ac lUu t itcdby A 1 \\ J n v tl k c TI V M V( i ni 1 1 n

I SH \kl WUKIIIY A lllORllRN ind V J iNNI -> Sii VNI)
amliti IS In pi Lp nation [ n pf pii lii i

Campbell- W alker -■ 1 iii C orri* rr 1
Card n H »vi t Tin .it M I ist 1
^hist C I icn m Fv M tioi \ ( \mp
BI^II MALKLR I'KCfS l-tp 8vo
2C t1

DEAD StTor niH\ or Sjortsmm’b
Coniplc (. tilde ItLing a In t s on
tht Use of the Gun lAitli kul nuntuv
and 1 mibhing I cssons on il t Ait ol
Shwling Ovnie ot all kind also
Oime Urn ms, Wild towl di I iit,(.on
Shoolinjr Dog lire iking, etc Byi
Marksvtan CtownSvo xoj 6/
Falkeiier.-“(iAMi*s Anch m vm»C»ri
I-NIAI AND HovN 10 PT \V 1 Hi M
By 1 DVi APD f VI ki M I U iih niiiiit |
rous iiogiaphs Diigiuns Ac 8v)
aij

Ford - TiIF 1 HJOKY AND 1 1 AC IlO OF
AKcni* Y By Htji \Li 1 II D Vtw
Ldit n lhonui,hly Revise 1 'ind Kc
writt nlyWBorrMA V^ ith \ I re
fate bye J Lonomvn \l ' 8vo i+r
Fowler -Krcolit (1 JONS oi Oin
COUMKV I III!. SftlU Pc hilt'll Spoil

liong^man tmss Oifnings Py
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Mas^elvJie mi vkps and 1 1 \is i
C Jiiip tf K V(1 t >M f th** SttreN of
( h It f till 1 ( 1 int u 1 Skill

ly Jl IlN \I\1I V’VSRIIYS rf the

I g\ 111 i H ill \V ill 02 III isti itions
( 1 >wn 8v 1 t

Payiie-Galiwey ^^olks bv Sir
K\l FH I \YM t VI I \\n I lit
li iih s 1 ) \( i M Snot II IS (l-irst
S lusl On ti hj tL iiid I st of i
Gun With t.1 lllustiat ms (r8\o
79 f /

I I 1 ihKS'io Yoinc Siior thrs (Sceend
s ncs) On the I r h i 11 Pifsiixi
tion andKilhngoH m \\ ihDiiec
tiuisin Siootinr Wtod I ns ind
Bn iking in k liuvcis With i i 01
tint of th Vutlnr ind 103 Tllusti x
*ions iioMi ill 12 0/

Pole Thp iHiniv 0/ nil Modern
Sill Mine (tvmi oi Wiiisr ByW
I 1 on h R S 1 tp bvo Cm/

I Proctor — Woiks by R A Pi o( i or
I How ro Pi vy VVnisi with thf

mg ml \ ntuliinl ByJ I\ FowtirI
* ( Rust us ) fonuily of Ayltsbuiy
Will P ti lit and to 1 Imstiations Bvo

109 61

FranoiN A Boor on Angiing or
lieai t on »ht An c Fish n., in tverv
P] if) h including full llUisti it< d I ist
of s I inon I lies By T R \N( is 1 R \NUS

C\ ith 1 01 tr lit and C oloui td Pliies Cr

VO

Hiwker— IAf Diary oi (oionfl
PhifiR Hvwkir luthoi of Instrut
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I aws and 1 iioiJi ill OF Wmsi
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HoMi. Wiiisi an L isy fiuidt to Coi
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W iloocks 1 111 SB A I ISHEHM VN ( OR*
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Beating Bi J C WiitOCKs Illustrated..
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Mental, Moral and Political Philosophy.

lOO/r hHl lOKK

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Anstotlo ks by
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SI Nsrs \NO UN iNii 1 n f I dvo 151
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Bray M oil c by Chari i s IM v\

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315

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8v i6f

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7 PIT AND SpAn a Mttlph^slt1l
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\o1 281

Johnatpne - A Siioi 1 Inti 01 k in n
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Killick Hvnpuook to Mni s Sys
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Ladd Woiks by George. Iuknbuli

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ClasBioal Litevatave and translations, &c. *

Abbott - Hlj 1 r Nu A \ c oil Ltmn of
I bbi>«« on i itck Pc(tr> Philosophy
History ind Kdiv; on I d tt I by
Lvu\n Asioir Mtf\ II D 8vo
16

iEiBChylUS -T l Ml MOTS OI i^^SfHY
I US 1th Ml uir il 1 ii[, h 1 1 inflation
By T 1 )<»vvI^s Q\3 ;t
Anatophanes Hu \( ir ^ i ni vns oi
AiisioPii\ Is mi I cl mu ]n dish
\cisc J 3 Iv \ 1\ uu ( uwji

IS

Berkc r rks l y r i )Ir ssoi Pi rKKi I
G VI 1 1 6 f r Koniaii ‘^w.n s in tl I iim
ol Vu u u Illustrittd Po t 8\o
7f 67

1 n Ai 1 T rs >r 111 isii il ms c f the
fr/ 1 If of th( Anupit Cmtks
II u t I I t S - 67
Old 10 ( 1< 1 )s 1 hsi( NI J N( I

1 V I ^ Ui HI \ K 1 IJ II

8 hi 1 1\ IS

^ai I'']! ( M I K I >1 1 1 >!• ifrt a

( t ( IJ cl n ff ih ivi i£(

I i fi the C < ^ \\ it I

An 1 t 1 nfit IV A l 1

tl duUnMd iindC niii n > ly
(ii OKt I s i AKNi! n M A W ith ^

I I lU s 8\ 3 i6s

damson Mvuts u ihi Oiv si\
IN Akt am 1 in \im l \ Jssi
1 Haiikis(4K Illiisn u I ^ilh O i
1 n Dhw I ^ S 3 t8
Jjang lies I SNU iiir Iii< By 1
/MiKry^ I \si* tie VII 8\ >j I t
IffaekBil M n n ] 1 VMS Tl ( M
nil III UK \NUl 1 rv B) I W
M \( KAII I 11 ) \ Ol 1 1 II 1 ( I 11 I.P
Ovfoid I hud u ih i Kt\ised 1 xt
IntiodiKtionf iMiishtioii and Notts
8\o t6s

Plato.— T AT Ml MDI s ( h Pi ato, Text
M Ith Inti dutli n Anil) sis &c By f
MacHKI* 8\o yr Gi

Rich— A Diction VI y or Roman and
GliLK ANriguiiii<s By A Kirii
BA With 2000 Woultuls Ciown
8vo yr 6J

Sophocks I shud into Fncjlish
\ 1 L 1 vl 1 1 Whuli V'' M A
A tut \I 1 r m Km, by School Iite
J Ic V oi ] 1 ty ( (llt^ej Cambrii ^
Crown 3 ** b

Tlieoc ntUB - l in Invi i s of 7 iii o
tuns Tuisl i I lilt 1 1 ,lish Vt»-sp
P\ JVMI S III II \ri VRD M \
O on lip \ij 6 6/

Tv If 11 IJ ANSI % I IONS INTO Gkri K
VN I MIN \ iu Iditcd by K Y

1 M U ! 8\ 3 (

Viigjl 11 1 n I \ ii IL Iran

J 1 It 3 1 It, b \ I by John Con
iRi 1 ( ( t i bs

^n^ Poi \ s )i \ 11 ( II InnsUtt 1
in Ln», sh h sc 1 y foHN Tomm
IN ( o\ n b\ > U

7 Hi ^ NFii ()i\n II f Mivnslvtcl
in 1 si hHInlv\ r B> W J
Th i Mill I 1 1 n b\o '7 6tf
lin 1 M 11 (1 Vn r 11 1 o^s 1 lo

VI 1 1 n 1 it T 1 u 1 n 1 sh Vtist
ly Jvwrs Kiio iis Ciuwn 8vo

y

Wilkins T HI Gi t n ii oi rur Hom
UKirJoUis HyCr Wiiktns, 8vo 6f

Poetry and

A.llingliam Woika by Wiitiam

Al I INUIAM

Irish oongs and Iopms With 1 r n
tispiece of thf W it rfvll of \ c
1 cp 8vo , 6r

Tmurp ncl JBLOOMI h I 0 W Ith P jr
tiait of theAuthor hip bvo fr®6d

Flompi PiECiib, Da\ and Nk.hi
bONOS Baiiads With 2 DfcSignb
bv D O RosbFTii Itp l\o 03 ,
laigi piper edition 12s

the Drama

llIV AN PnVNTASY With llflUl^
pi c b\ I } Min AIS Bart
and Dc ly Arihu Hu&Hhb
Ftps I tl 1 in ( paper edition lar

iHottuT AND Word and Ashby
M \NMB I U> W ilh 1 M If ut I f th<
\iihui (1 ind t 111 rii Ltiical
S ni s di iw n by Mi All tiglia^ Fb
8vo or hrgt papw edition 12S

Bi ACKBF RRiKb imptiial i6mo 6tr

iSeis of tht shave 6 zoU may ^
uniform half par4.kmfnt binding fiue^fse

14 LO^GMAMS S- A SrAND4KD 41*0 GPNhRAt » O^A S

' Poetry and ^he Drama -umtinmL

Armstronfif -Woii bv(TFSAv\Gr

Al MSII <)N(

Poj M- l}Ticildm! Dnmitic Fcp

b\o 6v

Kino Salf HIu Ji ',tfly of I r*\d,
I*ut I) I p ) sf
KiNCrUvML) lll\ I ii>tdv of Isriel,
Pm II) I <p

ImN(, btMOMoN (Ihi Ii 4: dv of
Isi vl I III 1 1 1 ) btp b\o f
L j1»n1 1 Ills dv 1 tp 8vo bs

A (.jMvI \M) hom (jKticr PoLnis
1 1 p 8\o 79 F ^

siin 11 s or \Vi( Ki ow Poems ftp
fa\ 1 79 0 /

Mm Hi')ioF(ii I s N UtoMKiorH 'i
Situ 1 p d\ \

Oni in nir Inuniil a I o m Ci

8\i) 7i 0^

AmiHUon^ I up Ioiikm Woiks

01 f OMl SD J VlMSlIOM, Itp

8vo ss

AinoM. W ) /s 1 sii I n \in \f noid
K C 1 1 A\tit loi ( t 1 h 1 i^ht ol
Asii At 4

1)11 I u iir or iiifWmii) cr the
Oti It M n'luninntion A Potni
Crown 8v ) 7 f / net
Pits nfition / / / With r 1 I lii‘>

tiitioii'* l> W lloiMVN Him
4to 2o> 11 t

PoiiMiM s Will ml otlni Poems
Crown 8vo n i

Ad/um A or th ^ I \\ UK s( W ife A
PHy Cro^n8\o oj Of n t

Bell.— ( HAMUFK ( OMI Dll S 'I i olltC
tion of Pliys uui \I( uolo^ues for the
Drawing Romn l>y Mis liiu.H
BbiP Crown &vo bs

Bjoinsen. Works by Hp>t NsrjuiNt
Bioi NSI s

P tsroK '^ANr, 1 n IV 1 1 insl iti d by
Wllii\M\\ilSoN /r b\^ ^9
A 0\UN HIT a Di Ain i 1 1 inshu d
into English by OsMw hDWAi r»s
With Portrait oi tin Authoi ( town
8vo, sj

Cochrane. - Ifit Kisikki s Nkst,
pnd other Vei it s By Al tki d Coth
Y top 8\o ^ 6/

Bante.— 1 a Com mi di \ di I ) \n te A
\t cii( fully* 11 Mstd with the
AJdof the most 11 tent Mitions and
Collations. SnnU 8vo 6%

Goethn.

M i Put! the tiermm lix* with
r 1 1 lui t on ind \ Ps 1 V \i I M r
M MIS Ph^U M V Cr 8\o 51
fAiisr limited with Nob 5 Pv
1 1 Winn 8\o 12 of

Ingelow . W oiks by JF AN I nc.!* 1 ow
PoiTKM Works avols lip &vc

TSi

Lmic vr woOthm J m ms s i <u »

front \'iilngs t Ji \n Im.i H)v\

1* p 8 2S <m/ bth p'lm 39
eloth g It

Kendx]! soNfs iiom Dit \mi \m>
Bv M VY Ki \n\i T lip f o 9 nti

Lang. Woiksly \Nl)RbW I \NO
IUN 'NO AttKll 1 P\N \ klllv ol

1 ii^itivt Khviu Ip b\i s*
ni t

(jRVss 1)1 P\ Wsis Tip 8\o ,

2 f) f 11» !

B\11\I)S OP l< KS I lUfd bF
\M>I I V I \N lip ?\t f9
liii IM liiiiyHooK liludbi
Am 1 9r W in 1 2 1 1 1 s 11 d
8S 11 t) I n 111 th U\t by 11 )
1« hi III 1 \NCMUL ^Ll 1 1) Clown
\ 0

S/ft If i hfi n pnnt a in In It in
/ // ; ^ W th lY t but o< ti 1 1

ItliuUihnf (/ in hi f 7 6f

Lock7“ I 01 MS H> W L 11 IrcKY
Fep 8\o , SJ

Leyton -Woiks by 1 k vnk 1 1 \ jon
iHh Shadows 01 im I aki ind
other Poems Ciown 8\o ys Ct
Chcip I'llition Clown bvo p 6tt
Ski I) TON L1A11S Pouns Ciown
8\o 69

Lytton. Winks 1 \ 1 in T \rl 01

I MTON K)WFN Ml Kl Dll H)

Mak\ii I ep &VO fl 6f
King Poiiy i Pantisn With i
Plite an 1 Design on ‘‘litli 1 a^e by
Sii 1 I) IM RNi JoNf s, A k \ C rown
8vo lOii 0 f

iHE WANObKIiR < r 8v0 LOS 6d
Lurili < lown 8\o lor 6if
SKLLCrKD POFMb (r 8vu lOJ 6d

s

/ONGMANS CO A STANDAHIl A^D GFi^ffSAt WOJ^/CS^

Poetry and tbe4)vamk-^«»V»»ei

JCaoaulaT.--LAYs op A^CIENT Romp

&c By I-,ord M \c Ai i AY

Illustrated by U bciiitRP Fcp 4to '

los 6d

B ]ou r clitu 1

i8mo 2T 6 / 1 lit lop

— Populii Edit! in

Fcp ito ^ / su V d tj 1 1 tl)

riusti n Ibv J R LCiULi IN ( roun
8vo jf 6/

Annotited ^ lit on I Lp 8vo ir
sewed IT 01 c c th

^esblt- 1 w \\n T r i nds By B

Nfspi) (Mrs 111 n M 1 i XNnl In t

Sttn ( IT >*11 f V nd

bents with Porti ut I town o ) s

viatt W oik by Sar ^n Pi \ I r

Pop MS With poitr lit if tbt \uilcr
aids (r)\\nS\o lo

An 1 N( riAN I PO ( ASTI 1 AND OTIIFR
Por M-* I tui s r iti uts ind I tOjiU
m Ireland CiownBvo 'i (/

Piatt. V\ )lk,b^ lOJIN I\MP PlVlT
iDYis \Nii Lyrit 01 ill Oik,
Vai I f \ ( row n o\ 5

Lnrn Ni w Worid li yis Ci
Sr

Rhoades Iph^a anti Oij r

loiMs Iv)\MPSi\nrM S VI

8*0 3 0

Riley Uoiks by {amps v\i
Rin Y

Oii> 1 \snu)M D 1 lisps lom^
lainu s

PoiMs llPM \i IIoMP liaf ^ n
(it n t

Robeils Ni\(v (1, nil ( win

1)\N \M> \\1 1 < M> tl) 11(>

Lf r U 1 1 V C U\KJ l s (j O

Koi r 1 I", t n V I \ 5? 6/

Shikespeaie 1 \tnis Pamijv
SnAKi MP vn W tl W ) dt as
t \ si &\o If Oi III 6 * 1 (p

8vc >1

iffi SH\krsftvRp Bn iiinAY Hook
I \ MaR\ I I>tNHVl ) Cl ()</

l)nw nr Kooin I dit jii w th 1 lioto
I \ph 1 p Sso lOT Of

Bturf^s \ H K op soNc I \ Jluan
Sr R( is 2hm • sj

Works^ of Fiction, Humour, &0a •

Anstey -Woiksiyt Anstpy ^mho^
of ^ ICt \ tl t

Till B VCK 1*0001 1 and olhti Str Ties

Baker l y 1 hi W i *> i h n Si a By
IamisBxa h Will 1 IchnWi i
cott ( I >\\ I oM> a of

LiownPvi 2J lioards 6/ cloth « Beaconsfleld. Ui
Voers roiuii Repiiiiud fiom, BpAtoNsinin

I s Ii> dl( Ill of

*Pttrih First Sn s \^ith aa
llluMratnns by I Bn nard Part
RiDGi Cr 8\o 3r 6<f

Novpls AM) I Ai FS Cht ip i d t on
Conn hu in jj \ols Cr 8\j 1 6d?
ci( h

Tup iRAVPll INO ( oMPAMONS Rr Vi\unOie> • H*nr tti 1 n| le
ptintcdfrom Punth Wi!h*«;lhus rhrVounRDukt dec Vtiuiii ’ n nd
trations by 1 Bi RNAKD Pariridw \hoy Ixion &r ( < nlIn;,^1I^ Svtil
Post Ato 5T * ( ontirini Flemin)^ Loth 111 1 nrivmu)i)

Thp Man pi om Bj ankt » y’s a Stoiy 1 dfc ^

m betw tnd oihti Sketches With I Novfis and I m Iht IliiFhenden
a4lllustrdiQnsb> } Bernard PART kdition With 2 Poinuis and i|
RIDGB Fcp 410,61 o VignetUs u vols Cr 8vo 4'»t

Aator.— AJOURNFYiNOrHFRWoRiDS Olegff.— riAVins Loom n Siorv of
a Romance of the Future By John Rothdil lili in Ibe cir> vtii#kaa|

Jacob AsroR. With 10 Illustrations Nmettmth Ctntuiy By Iohn 1ra=

Cr 6vo , 6s lORD Cl F(.G ( rown 8\o 6r

i6 do s 4^0 orNFRii ixomcs

^ Works of Fiction, Huihiour, &o. — conhnued

Deland 01 k& by M\kc \m r Di
LAND Authoi of ] )\\ 1 vV ^1(1
Till SiOTivoiAf nil) Cr 3to ^
Mi Tommy Dom ind otlnr stori s
i rown 8\o Of

Hairgard - Woiks by H RfDpa Hag

0 M D lontinued

1 I u Liicilllfiis With 17 PhU-

mil ,+ Illustntions in thr I(\t by
Lwchior Spfh) ( r 8\o 3 6/

Don gall Woiksbyl DouCiAII

BIOCARS \\T f lOWll S\o 6/

WiiAT NmI'isity Knows (lown
8\ f

Do>le - Woiks I y \ ( onan Doyi k
Mk \ni r of Monmouth

R( billion With I lontispif ci *1011
Vipn tt ki 8vo y f' f
Thi Caitmnot nil lonsrvi mi
otl I T il s ( r 8vo 6/

Till UnLUKS i Ilk ot Two Con
Hunts Cl Bvs 6

Fairar D\ imss and Dawn or 1
Scf 1 in th Divs ot Nero An Ills
to 11 f il B\ V chd^ icon 1 \rt \r
C r Sn ) ys 6 f

t «

Forster M\|oi Iosh»\ nyrkANCi
I I sii I < I wn ^\o t

Fronde 1 111 Iwo ( Mill'S or Din
BOY in li sh K nnii if Ihi Li
Cintuiy ByJ A 1 1 01 in (r 8vi
6/

Glllus - ThI ThINO rilAF Hai
Bijin cr \\ ifrt. Mu Ml 111 i
A H (iiiM'' M \ Mi'ttirf f T) ilwii
Cill s flit Moy indMisUrs

C r tin In ) t r

Haggaid Works by TI Ridi k Ha(

< »

I N\dv ii» Lily With 23 lllustn
' ti nslyC II M.Krik Cr 8\o,6j

Ml Nil zt MSS DsucmHi With 24
lIUi truions by M (jRT iTirMlV^rN
Cr 8v) bf

Al T \N s W in W itn 34 111 1 ti 1 r
by M Cii 11 III MI loi N milC 11 ^l
Kfri CiownSvo 3J taf

Fill Wirruc Hi xn With t6 Tllus
ti It I t i N ri t V I ^f 6 /

Mr Mn on s Win With irt lllu
ti iliL n t 1 > N 1 ®vo 3J 6d

Dwnn W till Hill trition f lown
8\f -iff

Haggard and Dang I iti* VVori n s
I)I<SIJI Pv fl kllM IlAKAlD^nd
Andki vV I \\( W ill ■»/ llliisti ilion

I \ M (jim I I NII\C I N (1 8vo fv/

Harte — N tut ( at 01 ini / Wood'i
ind othir blorus By Bi i r Hai ri

I I Svo 3J 6/

Hor lung Thi Unj^iduin Guisi
V f W He i<Ni M, c ruN%n 8vo Of

Dyall W 1 1 1 s b\ 1 DN \ I Y vLi ^uthor
of Donoi^ii Ai ,

I HF \L loj lor r \i HY OP a Si andp r
1 cp 8\o I siw d
Pun nlili n L 111 ion With 20 lUus
tnt ons oy J Wdior SuiD Cr

I 8vo 2f 61/ 11 t

Sup With 32 llliisinlions by M
Gi nil I MI I N I ul C H M
Kpri ( S\o 1 iw/

‘ \N iji \ii r MAiv With 31 mu',
ti It I ns 1 \ t H M Kpki Cr
bvo 3f t I

Mmwxs RFNPNfi or Ih War o
Iht 1 til Hiiil ( r 8no I bold
If fn/ cloth

CoioNir yi VKiKH VC. Cl 8vo

V ^

0 ror \1 1 • W ilh 29 Pull pitfc Ulus
ons I y M C^ki 11 1 pmiaoi n ind
£< c MON Woody IT IP Cr 8vo
3f hd

Bp A 1 1 ic p ( r 8vo v

Dorp en I he Story of i Sinj^i r C t
8\o 6f \in Ainttnbt

MelviHo Woikb by G J Wiiyff
Mpmjiif

In (ihdiitris . Holniby Iloiist
Ih Intiipitcr Kate ( wintry
f ji jil loi N jihing I Diifby (ai inrt
1 he (^iiu n s M in s (aenci il llounce
Cl 8vu tt 6/ cicli

Qhphant Woiks by **Mrs Oliphant
M\dsm Cr 8\o It
In Tkcst C r 8\o it 6f

Farr C \n this bf Lovr? By Mis
i Parr Author of 'Dorothy Irx . Cr^
8vu 6f

LONGV INS ^ CO S Sr4VDAfD AAD GPNtAAl 17

Works of Fiction, Hnmojb, iui.—coHfviuid *

Payn.— Wolks bv j wik s P n i

IHF Lurik Ok IHi JJAKIIllS Cf

8vo 1 f M

IJliCkIR HIAV 'Waiii Cr &VO
cu/

Phillipps-Wollev swp \\ Mid

of ih I )n^ Moiiiii im Mv ( 1 Hii

I III 't ot 1 \ \\ ith 1 ■) lllu ti itions

by II O V 1 Sk ti ^vo 6d

SeweU by lii/MirH M

Sf w 1 1 1

A<il ij tolti V 'Id I \miv it Tb rt
I MU ioi Pm \ i. M» 1 1 111

M P» i 1 I (j I (1 U
Kithiriu \ iM n I lloni 1 It
Jh I ul s ihnju r \iUi T ib
I hi I xn lun iit 1 it I i iil Ivors
Cl 8vd 1 o/iulitlothp III 2f 0/
t Kill loth \tr 1 ill id 'i
SteveTibon V\ ciks l y im un 1 I m is
Sii vr\s()N

hiKWiiV { \sr <)• 1)1 Jii\ * \M
Ml 11\1M t ) li w I

( / (1 h

Till UVNAMIH K IcpSvo If scwr 1
JS b if 1 1 Jill

Stevenson and Oabourne I nr

W 1 OM. Po\ Hv r I I 1 ( I IS Si I
Vljksos mil I 1 uM ( M 01 1 M ( l
8\ o 3J 6 f

Suttner.— I w Down ^i)l < \kms
Die If ajeu \ / 1 lit A u »1 1 >.*1 1| h) |

of Muthi I Iv li iu\ voM

suny K 1 1 Ml t<u by I lloi Ml s
(r 6a j 13 6/ •

IRUI \ tvILVllOV 01 Ml
llX'Tls XV1> Pllioii^ XUVhN
niPSO 'V'MIiF'W DUXdON Ijclltll
mm \\ 111-% tiiil I drwi tl i

Minnn of h s J il n In J m 1 mu
of hisShvii) in \lti 1 ind \J m of
hisl) 11 iiy Wit ni fill H md
IK u foi the hist t nil 1 1 11 I ( 1 8\( f

Wallord. Vvuiks l y I ii W \i n 1 n

Ml SMj i II l 1 il t of 111-1 111 1 1 Ml

8v( . 6/

iHI I \li\ S (iRASDMO III ( r vti

8a > 2i t /

C < Us Ns 1 lown 6v I

I xouitii soMif Dudiii S Ciiwii
8vo 2f 0

Pxui INF ( I vn 8vo 2 0/

1 Dll k Nr i 1 < >iMi ) ( f

II I If H) A 01 \ W I k (1 I.

VO f

ASlPl \ K (1 S I \1] IN (lOMIl
8v » ^ i

Nan ind t i s i s l n vn >

^1 tii

hn \ St 111 i OF Mj n V ( i \ i
s s /g

Ihj C>\i iidoniiiisr (nwiisio
2 ^ i

Pi n ( HI D ind ( rht i s s r 1 )wu
S\o 0i

I HI Mxkiimv Ik 3V0IS ( 1 ivin
®vo

West. ilMi Hons wiui i i Mil
IlUNVins SlllAMl hi M 111 1 h ll Uf 1
l IS to pt id 1 iiiila II tn Ml (( itfik t
Lditf d b> B l> W I si l r S\ > , i

Trollope Wtilsby ^miionx lior . Wevinan Wnksliys ( Wfwiw
Kill i lot Si OF 1111 Wjii l loWU

llH \\ \K|)l N (i ovo \ 8vo f f>/

HAUCHi Slth lowbl s (i S\o If ()/ } AGlMI hMWOI 1 I \N I ( I JJvo h\

— •

Popular Soienoe (Natural History, &o.)>

Butler.— Oil iloismoii) Inmcis
An Aicoiiit of till 111 t t Is ijund
m Dwtll Uous s B> { nw \J i> \
BVTIhk P \ Bsc (fond; With
113 Illustiitions i lowii 3 o t
Pumeaux.— Wnii sby w 1 1 1 m \i \
f KGS

THF DUTOiUiR W Okl 1> 01 J 111 ^ I Ull^
Collector s II u db *ok W iili 18
PlatLj loeoi whicli ait tolimiwl
and ^41; lllusii itions m the I^t
CroM n 8vo 73 6c/

BviiLRFiiis \ND Moms (triish)
With 12 toloim d Plalcb and 1 lui{i.
nunilxi of lllusti iiioiib in thi l<\t
loj 6c^ net [/» /At /*fess

Hartwig. -Works by Dr Giorgf

H\KI\VI(

IHI si \ \NUiIlS 1 IM'U WOM) s'
With 12 f’1iti% tiul ^J3 WoiiltiUu
cvc) 73 ml

1 111 1 koi II \i W Oki u W ith S ] 1 lU s

ind 174 Woodi uts ’'vc 7 itl
Till li)i«M WoMi) Wlh^Mips 8
llUtb matt-) Woodiiits 8vo 73

net # I

IJIF Si HM I KAM \N WoRID With
3 M ijib ind 80 W ooiftuis 8vo 71

net •

Thf \i 1 1 u WoKi l)

putts ind 60 W oodtutb 8vo , 73

mt

i8 LON03i4NSt& CO S STANDASD ANfi GENhUAL WORKS.

L _ _ . * I

Popular Soiondb (Matoral History, &o.)*

Hartwig -Works by Dr Gbopgf Stanley*--A 1*auiii\r History of
Hartwig— / /wrf Bjkus Bv h Si\nif\, DD for

IlFROBS or THIt I 01 ^R WORI D I9 ™ ,*>

lUustMtiODS ( lown 8vo as ' *■ ‘ 3'

W ON OP I S OH HI I ROPW AL I ORFSl S

40 lUiistranons irownSvoat 1 'Wood.— Works bv the Rtv T O Wood

WoiKiis UNDtr nil OIOIND ag
lilu ttalions ( icun 8\o as
Mak\i-is 0\fk our HbADS 29 11
1 isti It on 1 1 11 8\ )

>I V MoNSl»*Kb AND SJ A Bit DS 75
IlliMiiti ns as bf

1)1 Ni/J-Ns OP rm Dpi p 117 Illustta
tun CuNin dv j 2^ 6i

\nic \NO»S AND 1 \l IH riTAKLS 30
lilu triuons < r tv 8 as td
U II n Xnimai'- 01 M iRoiics 66
Ulus ruions ( rown ■'f 6d

Helmboltz Poms J cruKisoN

Ni ii > UK MIJPCIS I IIlRM NN
\0\ Hi I Mliui 1/ \N Ith 0 W )xl( Its
a sols ( io\rn P\o v ‘ *

Homi s wirHoui Hands a Desrnp-
tion ot ih Habit tiion of Aninals
cKss (1 Kc 3idin^ t) the Piiiit pi of
( onsttii tioii W th 140 llltisti uioiis
8vo 7» nit

iNSFCTb Ai Homf i PopuKr Account
o Ih iish 'ns cts th r Structure
H il Is ^nd Li t'lsfoTnutions With
7f>i Ulus 1 11 )n '< > 7 net

iNsPi IS \bi tAi3 1 f >pulu Account
if I n In t ihur Strut turr
Hibts nd 1 in I I ut >ns With
000 111 jsu It ( ns u\o 7 nil

Biitip Animais a f> tuition of
< VI IV 1 IV C K i iir in ntiontd in
if I Stiiptiuts Wi h iia llhistra
tion 8vo 7' int

Proctor ^^orks i>v Rii lARn A
Pkonoi

LiGiiiSfii h loi I EisURi Hours
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vols (rmnSvo ^ t uli
<■ HANCP AND 1 r CK a Distusbion of
ti 1 awb ot 1 utiv Co ncidi n
wogcis I ottttics ind the I ill tens
of (janiblin ki Ci 8vj ar
boardb as (sd doth
Rough Ways madp smoiph I imi
1 ar Essays on Stw ntiht Subjects
SiUu Library 1 du on C rown 8vo
3J 6d

Pi pas AM Ways in Scipncp Cr
8\o 3 Silver Library Bdition

i CiownSvo V 6d

The <ji faf I yramiO Obsprvaiory
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Nafui f biUDi) s By R A PROt iok
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LkISbRC Ri^AIlNGb B) R A PROC
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PpiiAND Rfvisiffd With 33 Illus-
trations Cl b\i) jf (d

Ou 1 jI 1 1 ■) KS \ s Itcti )n of Ongi
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19

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Works of Ref^Wce. ^

Haunder’s (Samuel) Vreaeuriea

BiOGPAPir(( Ai IiT \surT V thbip
plemLnt biout,lU t vn to i ^ By
Rev Icp 8 J 6r

TRPA<.LfV Ok N \Tl 1 \T Ills Ol N Ot
Pol n 1 f) Pli3nuy ot /oui With
900 'W t. Icul Tep 8\o 0

Tt y Asi K\ Ok Oi f)c I \i m Pli l i
JIi l IK il I) sn I 1 t ud I oil cal

\v 1 1 7 NH j in I i I h I (p

yc 5

Iij» I 1 J \ ( 1 I IF ! Know

1 ir V llu Ktv T \M 1 V \ 1
■'V n' i; \i i) s i ^ T 1 1 1 o

\\ K I I i'l )

I siokir o I n \si I \ Oitlii of

IIiiiv I il li u IV i Hist » es

ol 1 N ti ns c o j 0

Maundex’s fBamuel) Troa8urie*t

- LLJttin ic

Sri! rn If vm) T n i f m \ 1 1 k asi k\

I*Cp VO (

T 1 I BI \SLKV I P jrw' f ♦

I \ r I IN 1 / 1 R s (1

\lo Ki I J 1 \V ih W 1

C It 11 1 20 S L 1 1 • \ 1

Kp 8vo i

I iiks\ I I N i s \\()t

\Nl> 1 11 S S 11 1

nn (1 > a U ) }

of I 1 ts 11 ^ l t lit V (

I o 11 T 1 \ 1 111 ^! 'I k l\ J I

\f li I I s I t n th »

out t I II 1 1 II 1 f ^

fi 1 1 ll \ 1 1 \ t in 1 \ th

hill I tl \ I I *1 loi \

1 1 M 1 I 1 n i

I I \si i V Ok I s< 1 Ol AM> Wi3hc’> I \ I \ 1 \

I I \kY Ok K NCI Com

i I III J 1 ^ t c ini V If 1

G n u C i \ 1 ( /ct « ' 1 1

t ll ) (.1 l IV til I iw

Diet on rv K( i cp (vo ,

ink ill It )

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t r 8vo 29 6t/

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Irfuag.— Works t ditedby Andrew L \n(» I
Thf Blub. Fairy Book With 8
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Text by H J I old and G P
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Lani^.— Work c 1 1 ’ V \N w I »Nf

— c ntinuet

i IB Rfd I \ii\ %>Ok \\ h% Idis
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f bORO ind I VN( roi Sn 1 1)
Clown ovo f-J

iHl CiKIlN 1 \ IV BK'K With II
PI lies \nd 88 Ulus 1 it ons in ih ft x
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iHk IiTUE Poll 111 fH)OK With 12
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byll f hORD And I wruoJ SiiH)

C rown Svo 61

llik B!tF POkikY Pi OK ^cb^ol
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Svo 29 • f

iHk Ikuf StokyBocjc WiihSPhtes
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M Kfkr T.iANClLLOT SpBkD, Ind
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Children^ Hxtdks—eonhnHed

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< jwn 8vc pm

ill T irk (Ini) Du I^s i in Ait
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li\ nu s^^l \inHti I

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1 If I Mil I) 1 III T t I hv tjOKDoN
U )\v \i I

[ \1>1 I V ( I OC D

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lllu I llril

Vi i V 1 I Qt III 'noih I

bioi Y IwoStoiu Uvji \N 1n< I

low

Ki II 1 I)i i< \M0 V H\ the Am hoi oi
Mis‘> M Iv

Sill I I By M \K( Mil 1)1 1 vsu

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M W (xkKV •

f 4 The Silvei* Libraryi^

( ROWN d\0 AS 6d !< \f II \ UI UMr

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\ C a 1 ale of Countiy lilt
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W til Iliiist iloii'i ^

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\V til llliisli It < n ‘ ^ j

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HutSea'd's (H. R.) and Lang's (A) The
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3 ^ ,

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TielmholUb (Hoimann von) Punuiar
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1

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deflerles' (R.) Wood Magic. • X ibl |

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Ililllt itDllS \ t

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Hei iva'L i(Deaii)Histoiy of tiiL ^oinrns
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Mill's ( J. 8.) >tem of I ogic. (
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\ I 1 i i cm Is 1
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MV (j n 1 1 1 k I I \\ IS

\i \ I v\ 1 ''i III n s

< I I 1 1 i ixw

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w J 1 I ( N C \n

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( I.) I 1 ( 1 1 I I I S J « 1 I i 1

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I I \ V 1 I I o 1

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IPAI P\ Si J 1 11 i 1 1 IN , 1 MI

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